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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649502">The Seventh Sense</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDisoriental/pseuds/MissDisoriental'>MissDisoriental</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Love Crime Series [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fanart, Hannibal has got it really bad for…, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Canon, Protective Hannibal, Rimming, Sassy Will Graham, Will's POV, relationship dynamics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:14:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>159,915</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissDisoriental/pseuds/MissDisoriental</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been over a year after the Fall and most people know Will’s in a relationship. They just don’t know exactly with who…</p>
<p>A sequel to <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/5367389/chapters/12396374">‘The Shape of Me Will Always Be You’</a>, but can be read as a standalone.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Love Crime Series [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2101557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1703</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3327</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>BestOfTheBestFanfics, Emmas_Recs, Fine Fanfic, The Special Collection, fantastic_fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>What time is it?</p>
<p>It’s SASSY WILL TIME.</p>
<p>Welcome aboard my lovely Fannibals! Well, I’ve been out the fandom for over a year (and the first fic is several years overdue for a sequel) but let’s hope it’s a case of better late than never ;-D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Love is the seventh sense which destroys all other senses.”</p><p>   – <em>Anonymous</em></p><p> </p><p>                    </p><p>               </p><p> </p><p>Cover art by <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/30128940"> Patties92</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30789638"> neon_fox</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CNc-x72hbMu/?igshid=1oftdy2knozxt">Vapidus</a>, <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/30128940"> t1kt0k</a>, and <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/29662257/chapters/72931368#workskin">sparklingjoy</a>.</p><p> </p><p>The window is open and the AC’s on, but the bedroom air is still so hot and humid it’s like lying in a giant mouth. In fact it’s more than hot. It’s <em>stifling</em> – as if the entire city is slowly boiling and gasping for breath. I can feel sweat starting to gather at my neck and hairline, but even though I’d be more comfortable if I moved away from the heat of your skin next to mine I know I’m not actually going to.</p><p>“So,” I finally announce into the darkness. “<em>So</em>…”</p><p>I’m speaking very slowly and carefully, labouring over each syllable so there can be no possible mistake. It makes me sound stilted and unnatural – a bad actor reciting lines he never properly learned – but despite the way my own voice in my ears is making me cringe I can’t quite stop myself. There’s also the way you’re tilting your head every time I say ‘so’ and there’s a bit of me that wants to see how many times I can make you do it before you realise I’m being a dick on purpose. Then I’m tempted to make a stupid joke about you resembling a bobble head to hide how nervous I am before deciding there’s no real point. Mostly because you <em>don’t</em> look like a bobble head (as opposed to poised and thoughtful) and the only one who’s going to come out looking bad is me (while repeating ‘so’ on a loop with all the dignity and gravitas of someone having a seizure). You probably don’t even know what a bobble head <em>is</em>.</p><p>“Will,” you say, and the sound of your voice finally snaps me out of it and forces me to clear my throat – even though I know in advance that nothing’s going to come out except another ‘so.’</p><p>“S-o-o-o,” I eventually manage. This time I drag it out for a bit of variety; in the darkness I can see you tip your head again. “So.” (Deep breath). “What you’re saying…what you’re <em>saying</em> is you want to get married?”</p><p>You don’t bother replying to this; partly because of how much you despise stating the obvious, but also because awkward silences never bother you. We could probably be here until morning and you’d still just be lying there, watching and waiting in endless stretching silence with that same faint smile on your face. Not for the first time it reminds how much you enjoy seeing me uncomfortable so I duck my head to deny you the satisfaction, burrowing away until it’s impossible for you to clearly see my face. This is ideal because it eliminates all opportunities for eye contact but also means you can’t translate my expression (mission accomplished). Then I just lie there fidgeting while trying and failing to work out what to say next. But it’s difficult so I can’t, and I don’t even realise how franticly I’ve begun to gnaw my bottom lip until I feel your hand against my face to make me stop.</p><p>“Will,” you repeat.</p><p>So you <em>have</em> broken the silence after all: the first response you’ve made that’s genuinely unexpected. In fact it’s surprising enough to make me roll over again and pull myself upright. Despite the heat of the evening the sudden blast from the fan is uncomfortable and I huddle slightly then tug the sheet over my head. It then occurs to me (a bit too late) that this is giving me an unfortunate resemblance to ET in the basket…possibly you think the same because you start to smile before reaching up to pull it away. Not that I can blame you. You may not have many limits but proposing to a grown man wrapped naked in a sheet might reasonably be considered one of them.</p><p>“Look, I’m not saying no,” I reply eventually. “I’m definitely not saying that.” There’s a pause: it obviously occurs to both of us that I’m not saying ‘yes’ either. “I’m just…I’m not sure. It’s a big step. There’s a lot of things to think about.” You raise an eyebrow, clearly inviting me to elaborate on what these things could be. “I mean I’ve already been married once,” I add. “It feels so different with you.” Quite possibly this is the understatement of the year; maybe of the century. For a few seconds I grind to a halt then just shrug and add, rather lamely: “I’m afraid it would change things.”</p><p>You’re still not saying anything yourself and by now your silence is making me uncomfortable. It’s deliberate of course: a standard therapy technique to push someone into blurting escalating degrees of honesty. I clear my throat again, trying to make my voice sound as confident as possible, but I know it’s not particularly convincing. In fact if I’m honest it’s not convincing at all…I’ve probably seen porn films with better acting.</p><p>“I suppose at least when they arrest you I could get conjugal visits,” I add. You raise your eyebrows politely and so I just sit there and try to work out why I’m making a joke out of it, particularly a shit joke that’s not remotely funny. It’s still true though. For a few seconds I have an image of Freddie Lounds writing articles about me being a prison widow before remembering that I’d hardly be visiting your cell as opposed to sitting in the one next to it.</p><p>Even this doesn’t make you reply, so eventually I just give up completely and slump back onto your chest again so you can wrap your arms round me. This feels much more comfortable because I’ve always liked getting hugs from you (even though I’ll never admit it) whereas you seem to like administering them (even though you’ll never admit it either). It’s actually turned into a bit of an elephant in the room by now, a sort of <em>‘look at all this reciprocal giving and receiving of hugs: aren’t we just the pair of sad, sentimental old bastards?’ </em>scenario. You’re very good at it though. No one would think that to look at you – not in a million years – but you really are. It’s partly because you do it like you do everything else, which is with complete dedication and focus. Plus you always throw in little garnishes, like stroking my back, nuzzling my throat, or brushing your lips against my hair, so a hug from you always end up as an event in its own right.</p><p>“Have you been struck dumb or something?” I say eventually. To emphasise the point I reach up and prod your jaw with my finger. “You’re never this quiet.”</p><p>I’m half-expecting you to ignore me again in service of being as aggravating as possible (in other words, your ongoing quest to achieve maximum levels of dickishness), but instead you press your lips against my finger and when you speak your voice has that fond, amused tone that always makes it sound as if you’re smiling.</p><p>“On the contrary,” you say. “I prefer to listen to you.”</p><p>“No you wouldn’t,” I say gloomily. “Anyway, I’ve run out of stuff to say about it. I’ve actually started thinking about something totally different.”</p><p>“So what are you thinking about?”</p><p>“Freddie Lounds.” I pause for a few seconds, weighing up whether I want to self-identify as a prison widow before deciding no, definitely not: not at all. “It’s nothing,” I add. “I'd rather not talk about it.”</p><p>“That’s good,” you say politely. “I'd rather not hear about it.”</p><p>I laugh at this then pretend to punch your shoulder before settling down again and wrapping both arms around your chest. You sigh contentedly in response and I lean up to nudge your jaw a few times with my forehead. “I love you,” I say. “Even though you’re awful.”</p><p>This makes you smile; you’re always weirdly tolerant of me telling you how awful you are. “Although even if we <em>did</em> there’s no way I’d take your name,” I add. “So don’t even think about it.” I think about it myself for a few seconds then give a full-body cringe. I suppose the modern thing would be to double-barrel them but there’s no way I’d do that either (because, not to put too fine a point on it, it sounds shit).</p><p>“I’m not double-barrelling them either,” I now say out loud. “It sounds sh...ocking.”</p><p>“Indeed it does,” you reply. “For once we seem to be in total agreement.”</p><p>“I suppose we could make a portmanteau name. Grater. Lecham.”</p><p>“No,” you say firmly. “We could not.”</p><p>This makes me laugh again, although even as I’m doing it I know that the joking is nothing more than an avoidance strategy – and that you know this too – but, at least for the moment, neither of us are going to call it what it is. Then after that I don’t say anything at all and just lie silently in the darkness with my eyes fixed on nothing. <em>Married</em>.</p><p>*****</p><p>Looking back on it now, I think the part I remember most clearly was the flight out America: mostly because it might have been the closest I'd ever seen you to being genuinely nervous. But then of course I was nervous too, possibly even more so, because after everything we’d been through it seemed so perverse yet so probable that something so mundane as a checkout desk would be the thing that finally brought us down. That journey was perhaps one of the most excruciating moments of my life, and I spent it marinating in a miserable brew of fear and fatalism that grabbed me by the throat the moment the cab arrived for the airport and refused to let go again the whole time after. The main way I coped was by attempting to stage-manage every detail – everything from where we sat to who carried which bags – but while it must have been incredibly irritating to put up with you never once complained about it. I even devised a needlessly elaborate scheme that I was a military vet (to cover for my scars and air of wary paranoia) while forcing you to pretend you couldn’t speak English (because I was concerned your accent was too distinctive to speak out loud) and which meant you ended up mute for most of it while I alternated between silence and a snappy, snarling impatience that was exhausting for both us but still preferable to the fear it was designed to cover up for. Even when airborne I couldn’t relax and spent most of the flight gazing numbly out of the window, imagining how the roaring grey waves of the Atlantic would turn into the deep dreamy blue of the Mediterranean and how the former was a kind of graveyard that should have had us both at the bottom of it with crumbling sea-salt bones. ‘<em>We’re going to get caught; they’re going to catch us’</em> was running through my head the whole time and even when the plane had landed in Italy I still couldn’t accept that they weren’t going to find a way to stop us; that we were really going to get away with it. But they didn’t, did they? And so – we did.</p><p>In fact it was only after arriving that I began to fully understand how my obsession with escaping America meant I’d never really paused for long enough to plan beyond it and consider what ‘getting away with it’ would actually mean. All I knew at the time was the most literal sense of putting an ocean between where we’d started and where we ended up. But then we crossed the ocean and that was that – and a whole new scope of issues presented themselves instead. Things like finding somewhere to live, something to live on and, most of all, working out how to do it together. It was clear none of this would be straightforward, but then I think we both knew there was no chance it could be when the spectre of the past still lingered in every word and glance like a third person in the room. That old tension and rivalry was still there and even now it’s never fully gone away. If I’m honest I’m not even sure I’d want it to, because without it I know we’d be less intense and therefore less connected. Instead we’re like sandpaper, chafing off one another’s rough edges every time we touch.</p><p>Most of the time these tensions get bleached away by the sunlight, yet they’ll often come out at night to prowl around again; mostly in my dreams, which seem to feature you with embarrassing regularity. I’d like to say that these are dewy and romantic but of course they’re not. Often you’re trying to hurt me, or I’m trying to hurt you, and I’m still not entirely sure which of these scenarios feels worse. If I could I’d prefer to ignore it, but there’s no doubt there’s still a part of me that’s unsettled by you and what you’re capable of – just like I know there’s a part of you that remains wary of me as the only person who could realistically bring you down. I also know another wariness of yours is the idea that one day I could leave you, and just like my dreams it’s an impulse that mostly comes out at night. It makes you cling to me while I’m sleeping so I’ll wake to find your arm slung possessively round my chest or a hand gripping my shoulder, and while I’ll often pull away because it’s too hot or uncomfortable you always come after me to do it again. Instead I’ll end up rolling you over so I can lie against your back and cling onto you instead, and although it’s a simple solution it always seems to make you happy.</p><p>To be honest I don’t really know which of these has the most influence on us: your wariness or my fear. It rarely seems to happen now that we’ve grown more used to each other, but to begin with they managed to collide quite often. The first time was the most dramatic. We’d been arguing over something, which as a strategy is always fatal because it’s impossible to argue with you. You just get that aloof, closed-off look which provokes me into growing more outlandish and aggressive in an attempt to get a reaction. The cause was so trivial I’ve forgotten what it was by now, but at the time it felt incredibly weighty and serious and I remember standing there bristling at you with a voice stretched taut and thin with barely suppressed outrage. Eventually you made this quick movement forwards and it immediately triggered something in my brain – just the sight of you coming towards me with that cold, dead expression on your face. Later on you told me that you’d been planning to leave the room until I’d calmed down, but of course I didn’t know that at the time and instead pounced straight at you and twisted your arm back, hard enough to feel the delicate bones in your wrist grind together. You were surprised then, I think: you kept staring at me. <em>‘You look terrified,’</em> you said finally. <em>‘Did you really think I was going to hurt you?’</em></p><p>There was a long painful silence and then I’d shrugged and let go. <em>‘You really think I would have <span class="u">let</span> you hurt me?</em>’ I’d said, mocking and defiant as if the idea of you getting the upper hand was too absurd to be taken seriously. Secretly I was sorry, but I still couldn’t bring myself to apologise for it. Instead I vanished upstairs for the rest of the day and it wasn’t until much later in the evening that I finally went into the living room and curled up next to you on the sofa and put my head on your knee. I didn’t say anything and neither did you. You just started stroking my hair with one hand, pausing every so often to brush my cheek with your thumb, while I took your other hand in mine and clung onto it. I stayed still for so long I nearly fell asleep but then abruptly and shockingly, with no warning at all, I found myself beginning to cry. It was possibly one of the mortifying experiences of my life but I just couldn’t stop myself. It was the contrast, I think. It was like I could see us in the past, with all that horror and misery, and the comparison to the present moment was too overpowering to process. It wasn’t just grief for all the suffering, but also a sense of loss for everything I’d been denied since I first met you: for all the good experiences I should have had, but didn’t. Ideally it would have been elegant crying like something from a poem – a single tear trickling over my cheekbone – but this was brutally despairing and unrestrained. You didn’t say anything the entire time: didn’t tell me to pull myself together, or offer any lying platitudes about how everything was fine. Instead you just gathered me into your arms and held onto me, my head tucked beneath your chin as you ran your palm up and down my back. Then you started speaking very softly in a foreign language because you knew how soothing I find your voice and it was a way to give me the comfort of it without any pressure to reply or even process what you were saying. Mostly it was in Lithuanian, which felt very profound at the time because it’s your native language and one that’s somehow closest to the heart of you. That was months ago now but it still seems like we often communicate like that: silently yet sincerely, in the gaps between the words.</p><p>In fact that scene on the sofa was probably a bit of a watershed moment because since then things have been slightly more straightforward. Not exactly romantic – at least not by most people’s standards – but possibly not <em>that</em> far off. We even fell into a routine of snug domesticity pretty early on, which I’d never have thought I’d like so much yet by now has become a comfortable comingling of space that’s almost impossible to imagine being without. They’re always very small things yet are still oddly reassuring regardless: our shoes sharing closet space, for example, or your coat cosily draped over mine while hanging on the same hook, or even something as simple as assorted cufflinks, watches and loose change strewn together in a heap on the desk. I also enjoy the way we casually borrow each other’s things without ever having to ask: you using my razors or shampoo because you can’t find your own, or me grabbing one of your shirts first thing in the morning then wearing it all day with no one else being aware of the switch. Even most of our disagreements have devolved into the surprisingly stupid and mundane; an especially long running one being that you keep wanting me to pose for a nude drawing and I keep refusing you permission.</p><p>“No!” I said the first time you asked. It was the type of tone I use with dogs – kind but firm, slightly patronising – and you apparently felt the same because for a few seconds it seemed like you were struggling not laugh. “No <em>way</em>. Are you kidding me? That’s the cringiest thing I ever heard.”</p><p>You promptly looked disappointed, but I refused to budge, and in the end just let you draw candid pictures instead as a sort of compromise. This has resulted in countless sketch books filled with me doing the most boring crap imaginable: reading or walking or frowning at my laptop, or even me just staring into space. Some of them make me look vaguely angelic with huge eyes and a pensive mouth, but in others I look wild and feral. “Oh well,” you said when I called you out on it. “They always say a portrait is a greater reflection of the artist than the sitter.” I never see you draw yourself and you claim that you find my likeness more intriguing than your own, which I suspect is a metaphor for something even though I can’t quite figure out what.</p><p>“Why should it be a metaphor?” you replied. “Why is it so implausible that I find you interesting?”</p><p>“Because you’re a narcissist, that’s why. No one’s more interesting to you than you.”</p><p>You started smiling then, eyes gleaming slightly in the lamplight like a cat. “And there you have it,” you said. “We’re both such a rare breed: I’ve always felt I can understand myself better through understanding you.”</p><p>I was about to make a sarcastic reply, then caught sight of your face and fell silent as it struck me that for once you were being sincere. In this respect you’re surprisingly good at being one half of a couple; much better than I am if I’m honest. You can be unexpectedly gentle and attentive with lots of long gazes, soft touches, and a tender tone of voice that calls me things like <em>dearest</em>, <em>darling</em> and <em>my love. </em>I don’t call you anything except your name, but you never seem to mind. Endearments don’t suit you somehow: I’ve auditioned several possibilities in my head by now but none of them seem to work. Occasionally I’ll call you ‘<em>tesoro</em>’ because it’s easier in another language, like a shield to hide behind, and because I’d once overheard a teenager say it to her boyfriend and it seemed funny applied to you because it was so inappropriate – a bit like putting a satin bow on a Rottweiler. Only it was obvious you liked it so much that the joke never really wore off, and over time it seems to have mellowed into something more serious. It translates as ‘treasure’ or ‘precious’ so I suppose it’s not entirely inappropriate anyway.</p><p>“The precious,” I’d said later, to hide how self-conscious I felt. “Like Gollum.”</p><p>Naturally you didn’t get this because you have no pop culture references at all. It was clear you’d guessed it was unflattering though, because in revenge you started calling me ‘<em>piccolo</em>’ – probably because you wanted to see how long it would take me to work out what it meant and have a tantrum.</p><p>“I know you think you’re hilarious but you’re not,” I’d said once I’d had time to confer with Google. “So you can cut that out right now. I am not <em>little</em>.”</p><p>You’d glanced at me over your coffee mug then delivered on of your more feline smiles. “No beloved,” you’d said with exaggerated sincerity. “You’re just not entirely large.”</p><p>I hadn’t replied at all to that, but instead just bided my time then waited until you walked past before pouncing on you and clinging onto your shoulders like a rabid monkey. You’d started smiling then; you always like it when I’m ridiculous. One time early on you explained why. ‘<em>It’s because you’re being playful</em>,’ you’d said. ‘<em>It’s always predators who are the most playful Will, because they have the confidence and the leisure for it. Prey, on the other hand…prey is never secure enough because all its resources go towards survival. Look how playful a cat is compared to a bird; or your own dogs compared to the sheep they like to chase so much</em>.’ What you didn’t add was ‘look at me and how much I enjoyed taunting you and your FBI friends’ but it was obvious you were thinking it. I didn’t care though. If anything speeches like that just encourage me to be more impulsive. Admittedly I don’t do it all that often, but sometimes I can’t help myself – it’s like a sudden explosion of high-spirits that makes me madcap and excitable. To be honest the sensation was so unfamiliar at first that it took me a while to recognise it for what it was: happiness.</p><p>In fact in the early months of arriving in Italy the only small snag amid so much contentment was a growing sense of wanting someone else to witness it – and which was one of the reasons I found myself falling into an unlikely correspondence with Mr Haversham. Even the act itself feels weird because I so rarely use a pen now that my handwriting looks cramped and spidery, but I have to send him letters because he can’t use email. Of course he’d got it into his head that I’m off in Europe with my ‘young lady’ so in his replies he always asks after her. The first time he did it I was going to say that I’m single but found that I couldn’t bring myself to write it down. It’s ridiculous really, but I couldn’t; I couldn’t fathom you not being there, even when the person representing you was imaginary. So now I just use the letters as an excuse to tell him what you’ve been doing instead. I like having an audience I can gush about you to, even when hiding behind an avatar, and I regularly waste pages and pages describing the way your skin goes olive in the sun, or how you know virtually every street in Florence, or the time I surprised you with tickets to <em>La Traviata </em>and the way it made you smile. I enjoy describing them because they’re important, these little details; these little glimpses of You. I think most people see you more as a brand or a concept than an actual person. You’re so intelligent and imposing with that indefinable air of menace that you have, so it’s the little details which help to make you more human and knowable. It’s a way to see behind the façade and learn to understand you: that you’re not just this detached, unearthly representation that people admire, and are afraid of, but who’s totally removed from the rest of us. You’re so much more than that, and I can’t believe it took me this long to see it.</p><p>Of course Mr Haversham always thinks this gushing is cute, even though it’s actually pretty mortifying and I’d die of embarrassment if you ever saw the letters yourself. ‘<em>You’re very smitten aren’t you William</em>?’ he says in his replies. ‘<em>You’ve obviously got her bad</em>.’ Then he’ll usually follow it up with something sentimental and declaratory like ‘<em>Young love is a wonderful thing!’</em> even though neither of us are remotely young and only someone as ancient as Mr Haversham would ever think we were. Even so, I can’t deny I like the way it sounds: romantic and dashing, with the sting of long hot summers and making out in fields and car seats, or a school locker room that smells of sweat and chewing gum. Besides, it doesn’t matter if the young part is wrong because the rest is true and surely that’s the most important half. Because we are, aren’t we. We’re in love.</p><p>In this respect I’ve probably overdone it because Mr Haversham seems to think I live in an Ingrid Bergman movie and has become a bit insatiable for details. It also meant I was forced to come up with a fake name for you because I could hardly keep referring to ‘My Girlfriend’ in the way someone would reference My Car or My House. At first I was briefly tempted by Annabelle, simply because it was such an absurd pun; or even Hannah from that time he overheard us having sex and I had to improvise. But while it’s impossible anyone would ever see the letters I’m still too paranoid to risk it so ultimately just referred to the imaginary girlfriend as Anna instead. This seemed like a good choice of name – solidly forgettable and roundly American-sounding – and even compelled me to elaborate an imaginary back story of her growing up on a farm in Maine surrounded by dogs and picket fences. Mr Haversham promptly got more besotted than ever and at one point started asking for photos, meaning I had some quick explaining to do about how ‘she’ hates having her picture taken, even though you’re so vain you love it and I’m the one who’s camera-shy. Mr Haversham seemed to find this coyness not only charming but completely believable, most likely because he’s never heard of selfies or Instagram and grew up in an era when woman’s ankles were considered risqué. ‘<em>Young ladies like sweet things don’t they?’</em> he wrote in his latest letter. ‘<em>Should</em> <em>I mail her some peanut butter candy?</em> <em>I don’t suppose they sell it in Europe</em>.’ I told him not to bother but he did it anyway and I still ended up giving it you, even though I knew you’d hate it. It was during the Mardi Gras and I was sitting on your knee (I was pretty drunk at the time). “Look what Mr Haversham sent you,” I said. “He thinks your name is Anna.”</p><p>As predicted you weren’t remotely impressed with the chocolate, even though I know you secretly quite like Mr Haversham for looking after me in that time beyond the cliff when everything went black and it was just a hellish stretch of waiting before you finally came back. But I still caught you inspecting the parcel when you thought I wasn’t looking, thoughtfully running a finger across the US postmark like you were remembering that old apartment and the time you’d spent with him hearing how I’d failed to cope when we weren’t together. Feeling how you felt then? Who knows: perhaps you were, perhaps not. You’re so difficult to read sometimes and of course you’d never say so either way. Naturally you never went so far as to actually eat any of the candy yourself so I ended up devouring it all in one go on my own, licking the chocolate off my fingers afterwards like a teenager. It was greasy and gorgeous and tasted like home, and it made me think of Mr Haversham with his arthritic fingers and his ordinary life and how strange it was that this eminently nice old man had now become a tiny part of it: the beautiful, terrible Story of Us.</p><p>*****</p><p>It’s now been nearly 12 hours since your ‘<em>By the way, let’s get married’ </em>bombshell and in the entire time I haven’t mentioned it once and neither have you. It’s actually pretty ridiculous. I can’t help it though, because I don’t feel ready to say ‘yes’ and in the absence of that what else is there to tell you that you’d really want to hear? It’s times like these that I feel the full weight of my own emotional constipation, although to be fair it’s not like you’re any better. In fact if anything you’re even worse. I don’t think you recognise what your emotions are half the time – they could punch you in the face and you still wouldn’t know. You’d probably just punch them back then machete them or something. There’s also no doubt that the situation has the potential to grow very messy very quickly, but while I might agonise over this I suspect it’s yet another thing that won’t bother you. In fact it certainly won’t, because messes never do: your solution is always just to make a bigger mess that cancels out the first one.</p><p>It’s my turn to pay the rent this month (always cash; always untraceable) and while I’d bitched endlessly beforehand at having to go, the memory of last night’s silence makes me glad at an excuse to leave the apartment and avoid the numerous awkward conversations that I know are still lying in wait. The relator’s office is several miles away, which will let me stretch the journey out enough to sprawl across the entire afternoon, but while the distance is usually a source of annoyance it’s not the reason I dislike going. Ironically I was the one who found it in the first place although the location, while inconvenient, has always bothered me far less than the agent himself. It was clear from the start that he was suspicious about a cash payment, and after nearly an hour of wrangling (and me playacting Dumb American Tourist to an extent that was borderline painful) he agreed on the condition of an added fee to the rental price; allegedly for ‘administrative inconvenience’, but really because he’d guessed my options were limited and felt he might as well make a profit off it. At the time I was too relieved to have found someone willing to give us a home to feel like it was worth arguing over, but when I told you about it later you narrowed your eyes into little slits of disapproval before wordlessly retrieving your coat and vanishing from the hotel. You were gone for ages, and when you finally came back you just sat down in the same chair again and stretched your legs out in front of you like nothing had happened.</p><p>“The rent will be the original amount,” you’d said in a calm way that suggested the matter was settled; and it certainly seemed to be, because a raise in price has never been mentioned again. It’s just one of countless issues that makes me feel uneasy, although admittedly the agent has never seemed unhappy about it. Quite the opposite. In fact if anything he’s slightly coy and ingratiating, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say he was flirting with me. It always makes me anxious about what you might do to him if you find out, but if you’ve picked up on anything you’ve never referred to it. I suppose it’s possible he’s like that with you as well; maybe he’s like that with everyone because he thinks it’s charming? Fortunately he’s out the the office when I arrive so I just give the envelope to his secretary instead, who accepts it with a polite ‘<em>Grazie</em>’ before slipping it discreetly into a drawer. She urges me to have some coffee afterwards, but while I know from experience how good it is I’m too keen to leave to say yes. Mission accomplished I swivel round to make my escape before – oh shit – the door flies open and the agent comes walking in anyway. He gives his secretary a weird little smile before turning round to face me, and there’s something about it that gives me an unpleasant  feeling that he asked her to delay me as long as possible if he wasn’t in the office when I arrived.</p><p>“<em>Ciao Signore</em>,” he says now.</p><p>I open my mouth to reply then realise I can’t remember what his surname is and promptly have to shut it again. Matteo…something. I’ve never bothered to learn how to pronounce it properly so it’s always failed to stick in my head. In the end I just stand there without answering and he smiles again then gestures at the wall behind him. “You like our new artwork? A very exclusive piece by Gianni Lombardo. It arrived from Rome this morning.”</p><p>Reluctantly I make a pretence of admiring the picture, which is a truly hideous rendering of…something. Actually I don’t even know. It looks like it could be a figure on beach, but the frenzied smears of yellow paint manage to resemble liver disease more than anything else. I want to say ‘That’s one of the worst things I’ve ever seen in my life – and I’ve seen <em>corpses</em>’ but eventually just substitute a vague humming noise instead.</p><p>“A future collector’s item,” continues Matteo. He turns to the receptionist, who gives a disdainful little sniff as if to say ‘don’t bring <em>me</em> into this,’ then swings back round again, beaming away like it’s a new born baby on display instead of sundry bits of crap on a canvas. I wouldn’t actually be surprised if that’s its official title. <em>Crap on Canvas </em>by Gianni Lombardo…</p><p>“Um, yeah,” I eventually manage. “It’s…neat.” It’s definitely not the most flattering choice of adjective (<em>charming, elegant, evocative</em>) although judging from his confused expression he doesn’t even know what I mean. I suppose he’s only aware of ‘neat’ as a synonym for tidy and doesn’t understand that I’m attempting to be nice about his godawful artwork. Even so, I can’t be bothered to explain it.</p><p>“Well, it is good to see you <em>Signore</em>,” he finally adds when it’s become obvious I’ve run out of shits to give about the painting. “You are well, yes? You look well.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” I say. With an effort I force myself to add “Thanks,” but draw the line at asking how he is in return. Likewise I don’t want to use to his first name as if he’s a friend, although I know I wouldn’t want to use his surname either even if I did know what it was (which I don’t). As he gives me a rather oily smile the urge to tell him to fuck off is briefly overwhelming, but I know I can’t justify being so hostile without a proper reason. I actually wish I could but I can’t: my problem, fundamentally, seems to be that I’m a bastard trapped in a nice person’s body (unlike you, who’ll gleefully engage in epic bastardry for absolutely no reason at all). Of course there’s also the need to stay on his good side for the sake of the apartment, but in spite of all that my capacity to remain polite is becoming a serious struggle. As a distraction I start to mentally categorise all the swear words I can think of that start with a B <em>(balls, bastard, bullshit…). </em>It’s like a form of mindfulness. Sort of.</p><p>“And your friend?” he adds. “He is well too?”</p><p>He always does this: refers to you as my ‘friend’ with just enough emphasis for innuendo while never being obvious enough to get called out for it. Not that there’s much I could really say. What <em>could</em> I say? Lean up and whisper ‘Actually we have <em>sex</em>’ right in his face? Surely he must already know…unless of course he really is that dense and sincerely thinks we’re a pair of Dude Bros who loll around with our Playstations all day in his overpriced apartment.</p><p>“He’s fine,” I finally reply through gritted teeth. To liven things up a bit I now start adding some transatlantic ones<em> (bloody, bugger, bollocks…). “</em>He’s…” Briefly I fall silent as I struggle to think of something appropriately bland that you could be doing: it’s like Mr Haversham again with yet another version of you that doesn’t actually exist. “He’s enjoying the concert season,” I eventually add. Not that you are: you couldn’t give a shit. According to you the local auditorium is ‘provincial’. We visited once a few months ago and you spent the whole time wincing at the wrong notes.</p><p>“Oh, <em>eccellente</em>,” replies Matteo. He sounds animated, clearly eager for every last scrap of information. “I didn’t know he was musical. He has never mentioned it.”</p><p>I stare at him for a few seconds, trying to picture you having cosy conversations with him about your various interests before giving it up as impossible to imagine. He stares back for a few seconds then starts to subtly manoeuvre himself in such a way that I won’t be able to get to the door without brushing past him. He catches my eye as he does it then smiles again, innocent and unassuming.  </p><p>“Gabriella,” he says, without turning his head. “Did you offer a drink to our client?”</p><p>The secretary gives a little sniffing noise of assent and I abandon restraint and shove past him rather roughly to get to the door. “In a rush I see,” he says, pantomiming regret. He makes a quick movement with his hand like he’s about to touch me, but he must see something in my face because he stops almost immediately before stuffing it into pocket as if to prevent it misbehaving any further. There’s an awkward pause then he shrugs and gives a little laugh. “You Americans are always in a rush,” he adds. “Always somewhere to go. In Italy we like to take our time.”</p><p>I snap “I have to get back,” then watch as his eyebrows elevate up his forehead in what’s a clear invitation to describe the reason. Of course I do have a reason (namely ‘<em>I’d rather gnaw my own feet off than talk to you anymore, you tedious shit</em>’) but seeing how the truth is hardly an option I substitute it for an incredibly half-assed lie about expecting some guests.</p><p>“Guests!” replies Matteo. “<em>Ospiti,</em> how nice. From America?”</p><p>“From Kyrgyzstan,” I say: because fuck it, why not?</p><p>There’s another small pause – it’s clear he’s never heard of it. “How interesting,” he says eventually. “Kyrgyzstan. Is that where your friend is from?”</p><p>I have a sudden awful feeling I’m going to laugh. I suppose your Italian, while flawless, must sound fairly exotic to him when filtered through your smoky accent (although admittedly Kyrgyzstan is still a bit of a stretch).</p><p>“It’s good we still get visitors,” continues Matteo. As he’s speaking he retrieves his copy of <em>La Nazione </em>and waves it in my direction<em> – </em>at which point the smile promptly withers away from my face and I no longer feel like laughing at all. “Many people have been put off. Bad publicity, you know? You must tell your guests not to be afraid and that the police will do their job.”  </p><p>Reluctantly I now force myself to glance at the front page, which even my grade school-level Italian is able to translate as the discovery of a fifth body, courtesy of <em>Il Macellaio. </em>The first time I heard the name I assumed it was some kind of synonym for evil or cunning – I think I’d got it confused with ‘Machiavellian’ – but it turned out to not translate to anything more imaginative than ‘The Butcher’. In a way I was glad: elaborate nicknames always lend a level of power and mystique that’s entirely undeserved and at least <em>butcher</em> was suitably sordid and brutal. The killings first started about six months ago and I remember you saying from the very beginning that they had a serial killer on their hands. After the second murder I was inclined to agree with you – although it wasn’t until the third victim was discovered that <em>Omicida Serial </em>began to regularly appear in the headlines. It’s always so hard to hold your attention that I assumed you’d lose interest in it after a month or so, but up until now you never really have. And neither have I: although I know the source of our interest is very different.</p><p>Matteo is really staring at me now, dark eyes crawling up and down in a way that makes me think of beetles with shiny black-backed shells. “I hope you and your friend are not worried,” he adds. “This one is a Bad Hombre, as the Americans say, but he will soon be caught.”</p><p>“Americans don’t really say that,” I tell him. Or do they? I’ve never really known what ordinary people say. But then you don’t say it and neither do I, and it’s been ages since I’ve had much interest in anyone else. But deep down I know that I <em>am</em> worried, even though it’s not for the reason he thinks. Because while I’m not afraid for our physical safety (I’d like to see the Bad Hombre that would dare take you on after all), what genuinely scares me is the attention such a sensational case might attract. Yes it’s unlikely, but I know from bitter experience that it’s not impossible. And so as the deaths mount up and the headlines get darker, my thoughts grow more persistent and troubling: <em>What if they ask for help from the FBI? What if Jack turns up in Italy? What if-what if- what if</em>…</p><p>“Well, let us hope that there are no more stories,” adds Matteo. Briefly he brandishes the paper again. “<em>Nulla nuova buona nuova,</em> as we say in Italy. No news is good news, yes? What would you say in America?”</p><p>“’m not sure,” I say. “Lock and load?”</p><p>The sarcasm is obvious but he still starts laughing merrily like I’ve just crapped out the best joke he’s heard all year. He’s always seemed a bit obsessed with me being American; most likely the result of a diet of movies and sundry pop culture that’s lent the concept a degree of second-hand glamour it doesn’t really deserve. It’s a phenomenon I’ve seen fairly often in the more secluded parts of Europe and is a complete opposite to you (who, despite having chosen to live there, still treats my Americanness as an endearing form of disability that’s unfortunate but can’t really be helped).</p><p>Matteo now smiles at me again, expectant and encouraging. <em>Eager</em>, in fact – almost like he’s hoping I’ll start whistling <em>The Star Spangled Banner</em> as a bald eagle swoops through the window. It’s a stark contrast to your own amused disdain at anything transatlantic, and at the thought of you I feel a sudden rush of fondness that’s quickly followed with a sting of guilt at having stayed away so long. I should have been home <em>hours</em> ago by now; you’re probably wondering where I am. Of course it’s also possible you’ve been in some kind of Memory Palace coma the entire time and didn’t even notice I’ve left, but either way I’m consumed by an urge to see you that’s powerful enough to transform me into one of The Rudes and leave Matteo rhapsodising about America to an empty room so I can shove past him and run down the stairs two at a time to go in search of the nearest station.</p><p>Having spent all afternoon wasting time it’s now typically perverse that once I’m in a hurry time decides to turn round and bait me right back: which means the bus doesn’t come, and the traffic is terrible, and by the time I finally get home it’s well into the evening and already getting dark. The apartment is eerily silent when I open the door and for a few seconds I think you’ve got bored of waiting and gone out yourself before seeing your coat is still hanging up. The simplest thing would be to shout for you, but I’m feeling too self-conscious by now so just sling my coat over yours then saunter down the hallway pretending to be casual. The kitchen’s in darkness and there’s no way you’d go to bed this early, so after a bit of awkward hovering I decide to check the living room and yes, sure enough – there you are. You’re stretched across the <em>chaise longue</em> with a book in your hand and an informal air of comfort that always manages to be endearing because it’s so unusual: shirt sleeves rolled back, hair slightly ruffled and long legs curled up like a cat. You’ve lit some candles in preference to electric light and the dull glow makes you look like something from a different age. A painting by Rossetti, perhaps: ‘<em>Gentleman Deep in Thought’.</em></p><p>For a few seconds I just stand there staring at you. It’s obvious you’ve heard my footsteps but you don’t glance up from your book. “Hey,” I say eventually.</p><p>Instead of answering you turn your page over then raise your arm in a silent invitation for me to come and lie next to you. The sofa is a narrow one and there isn’t really enough room, but I still walk over anyway and jostle about for a bit until I’ve nearly pushed you off the edge and can hook my legs around yours. The motion causes my watch to catch your shirt cuff and you frown slightly then unfasten it with your free hand and put it on the table. The quickness you do it with promptly makes me smirk to myself, because I know you hate that watch. It’s incredibly cheap and tacky (digital display, plastic strap) and the mere sight of it always drives you insane. Your own watch is a slim wafer of gold around your wrist and you’ve made repeated attempts to let you buy me something similar, which I keep refusing with equal enthusiasm. Possibly I’m being ungrateful, but it’s easy to imagine that what starts with a watch would end up with you trying to control my entire wardrobe and it feels like an important boundary to establish early on.</p><p>Having disposed of the offending watch you wait until I’ve gone still again then prop the book on my shoulder and rest your cheek against my hair. I crane my neck a bit so I can have a look. The pages are wilted with age and printed in something that looks like Latin, and the whole thing’s so incredibly boring that in the end I just give up and start fidgeting about instead as a sign that I want some attention. You make an amused sound in response then nudge the side of my face with your chin.</p><p>I return the pressure then settle back against your shoulder, doing my best to avoid the sharp edges of your collar bone. The silence feels oppressive, yet while there’s so much I know should talk to you about I still can’t quite find the words. Instead I just close my eyes and relax into you, enjoying the way our breath has synchronised like we’re inhaling each other’s air. At some point I’ve started stroking the back of your neck, rubbing my thumb across it in an absent-minded way just above your shirt. I do this quite a lot; I think it’s a weird kind of muscle memory from owning dogs for so long (sometimes I’ll even scratch behind your ears). But it’s obvious you like it, so I’ve never made any effort to stop. As dumb as it is, I suppose it must be a bit of a novelty for you. You’re used to the type of touches which are intended to either hurt or persuade, whereas this is done without expectation of anything in return except to make you happy – casual and affectionate, and coming from a place of care rather than fear or conciliation.</p><p>To prove the point I increase the pressure on your neck then give your hair a playful tug. “I love you,” I say quietly.</p><p>Next to me I feel you tense a little before reaching round to cradle my face in your hand, gently pulling it forward until our foreheads are pressed together. This is your way of saying <em>I love you too</em>, although you’ll rarely say it out loud. Sometimes you do, but more often it gets expressed in gestures or looks. These looks can be very intense: it’s as if ‘I love you’ isn’t sufficient and what your eyes are really saying is ‘I’m <em>obsessed</em> with you.’ I call them your manic moments and I’m only half joking. It’s when you stare straight into my face, extremely focussed and forceful, and I know you’re thinking about the trail of bloody footprints that led us here. It only ever lasts a few seconds before you seem to snap out of it, but it’s always very powerful when it happens, as well as vaguely unsettling in how raw it is.</p><p>I now shift round to give you a clearer view of your book, then flop backwards so I can squint up at you from beneath my hair. The sun is starting to set and as the light spills through the window it bathes your skin in shades of burnt gold, persimmon pink, and a deep smoky crimson the same colour as blood. There’s a low thrum of music from your laptop and the violins match the pounding of the raindrops on the skylight the same way as a heartbeat. By now I’ve grown very soft and sleepy, which I know you’ll enjoy because it lets your controlling streak come out and you can pick me up and move me around in a way I’d bitch about endlessly when I’m fully awake. Exactly on cue you now reach down with both arms and tug me upwards until I’m half on top of you and staring straight at the skylight overhead. I make a half-hearted attempt to complain about it, but ultimately decide not to bother because I’ve just caught sight of us in the rain-streaked glass and am struck by the way my reflection is overlaid with yours. It’s arresting and almost eerie – lips, skin, breath, all blended together like twin souls in a single body – and it reminds me all over again of that uncanny sense of you as an extension of myself.</p><p>Next to my eyes are the glimmer of yours and as I watch you reach up to trail your finger along my cheekbone.  “Look, beloved,” you say quietly. “Look what we made.”</p><p>It’s an abstract comment that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else, but I understand immediately what you mean. Of course I do; I don’t need to be told. You mean: <em>after everything that happened, after all the horror and madness…we still made Us.</em></p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lol, apologies for the epic fail in logic because I know it makes no sense for Hannibal to be running around in full view of everyone post-prison break. The novels got round this by having him change his appearance with plastic surgery, but the films and show basically ignored it so I’m going to do the same. Anyway, we love Mads’ face exactly as it is don’t we lads?</p>
<p>Also, just to let existing readers know that this fic is likely going to end up much more character-driven than my previous ones. There definitely will be a background plot, but at the moment I’m not planning for it to be the kind of highly-detailed mystery story of the type I usually do. Instead the main focus will be on the relationship and my version of how long-term Hannigram might develop once the intimacy is already established. </p>
<p>TL;DR Cue lots of chapters where not much happens except Hannigram bickering and flirting like an old married couple with a bit of murder thrown in.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Next morning I wake up later than usual with a crick in my neck and all four limbs splayed at random angles like points on a star. I slowly re-arrange them into something less ridiculous, then spend a few seconds feeling confused at why the mattress has turned so weird and bony before realising I’ve managed to migrate across the bed at some point during the night and draped myself across your back. My weight must be uncomfortable but you’re still not asking me to move, so I decide I might as well take this as an invitation to settle in and stay exactly where I am. It’s surprisingly cosy if I’m honest: your skin is warm to the touch, and (as long I avoid the ridge of your shoulders) is pleasantly smooth to lie on. You feel very still beneath me, but I can tell you’re awake from the speed of your breath so haul myself upwards until I can nudge at you with my forehead.</p><p>“Got you,” I say.</p><p>You make an amused sound then pause for a few seconds before wrinkling your nose – which immediately makes me want to laugh because I know it means you’re tired and trying not to show it. “It appears so,” you reply. “I confess, it is not particularly gratifying to be ‘got’.”</p><p>“No,” I say smugly. “I bet it’s not.”</p><p>“Indeed.” You give me a rather beady look. “Although I suppose if anyone were going to manage it, it would most likely be you.”</p><p>As you’re speaking you wrinkle your nose for a second time, then see the way I’m sniggering at it and give a small sigh at getting caught out again. It’s like you can’t stand being anything less than infallible: even your own drowsiness offends you. Your other major giveaway is blurting something random in a foreign language when you first wake up, and no matter how often it happens it never fails to be funny (as does the look of irritation that inevitably follows it, like you’re annoyed with your mouth for failing to catch up with your brain). I guess the kindest thing would be to get off you and let you wake up properly, but now that I’m up here I’ve decided I don’t want to get down so just stretch a few times instead then begin examining the small web of scars on your shoulder blade. Admittedly these aren’t especially interesting in themselves, but I’ve been seized by one of my sudden bouts of possessiveness which means I won’t be able to stop obsessing over you until it’s run its course. I don’t think I've ever really got tired of looking at you, and by now you’ve learned the hard way that it’s better to suffer in silence until I finally lose interest and stop. It’s actually pretty funny: seeing you having to just lie there and put up with it.</p><p>“One of your inspections?” you ask in the usual long-suffering way.</p><p>“Yes. Hold still.” I prod your shoulder blade to show I mean business and then put my palm on your neck to stop you moving as I resume examining your acromion bone. It’s actually quite a good specimen as bones go: very firm and rounded with a smooth bolt of muscle nestled underneath. Beneath me you shift again, clearly irritated by the sensation.</p><p>“Hold <em>still</em>,” I say bossily. “Are you ticklish or something?”</p><p>“No. I’m just not oblivious to being jabbed in the back.”</p><p>“I’m showing an interest in you. You should be flattered.”</p><p>“I am <em>immensely</em> flattered,” you reply in a deadpan voice.</p><p>I can’t help laughing at how martyred you sound – then promptly regret it when you take advantage of my inattention to flip me off your back and onto the mattress. It’s a typical dick move and I gaze up the ceiling, secretly feeling annoyed while also relieved that you haven’t retaliated by climbing on top of me yourself. This is undoubtedly a good thing (possibly life-saving) on the grounds that you weigh an absolute ton. Not that I’m sure how someone so fit and toned can weigh a ton, but you definitely do. I suspect it to be a combination of muscle mass and malevolence.  </p><p>You smirk a bit at having got the upper hand then lean over to run a fingertip along the edge of my cheekbone. “You seem to have acquired some more,” you say.</p><p>This is a reference to the faint dusting of freckles that have appeared from being in the sun so much and at the mention of them I roll my eyes halfway back in my head. Those goddamn things have become a source of fixation that would border on comical if it weren’t so irritating; it’s like you’re <em>obsessed</em> with the little fuckers. In fact you probably are. Oftentimes you seem to know my body better than I do myself, which means even the most banal changes becomes an object of fascination.</p><p>“They’re quite charming in their own way,” you add thoughtfully. “One might even say pretty.”</p><p>“Ugh. Call me pretty again and I will <em>end</em> you.”</p><p>“Well they are,” you say in an exaggeratedly sincere way. “Like speckles in the centre of a tiger lily. Why end me for being the bearer of bad news?” You wait for a few seconds then give me a rather malicious little smile. “You of all people should appreciate the concept of not shooting the messenger.”</p><p>You’re being really annoying now, but I start to laugh anyway – mostly because the ‘pretty’ reference is so obviously revenge for me rolling around on you to peer at your shoulders. Not that I’ve got any real grounds to complain because I’m as bad as you are; it’s just that I do it in a different way. Less appreciative and more…forensic. So I’ll never wax lyrical about you being pretty (even if you were – which, like me, you’re not) but I’ve still touched your face enough times that I can read it with my fingertips the same way a blind person reads Braille. And I won’t fill sketchbooks full of your image, but I’ll ask about the provenance of each scar and mark on your body until I’ve fulfilled my quest to chart a mental map recording every last detail of you. It often feels exhausting to be the focus of such intense attention, yet even after all this time there’s no denying we’re still completely fascinated by one another. In my more honest moments I actually find myself wondering if it’s simply a form of narcissism, in that each of us see ourselves reflected back so precisely in the other person that the interest is just an unconscious form of self-regard. In other words: a massive intellectual circle-jerk.</p><p>I’m now about to ponder my possible options to banish the freckles – ranging from sun avoidance (inconvenient) to concealer (mortifying) – when there’s a sound of the front door clicking, followed by a faint patter of footsteps across the tiles. Seeing how it’s Tuesday this means we’ve managed to lie in bed so long (using affection to torture each other) that it’s already 10am and our housekeeper has arrived to fix the chores we’re too lazy (me) and pretentious (you) to get off our asses and do for ourselves. It was you who first suggested hiring her; I was less keen on the idea, but have finally grown to accept it after realising how hopeless the two of us are at housework. For two grown men this is admittedly rather tragic but there’s no doubt it’s true. It also possibly explains why both of us cope unusually well in prison, because the guards just do everything for you.</p><p>I now lie still for a bit, absent-mindedly tapping your shoulder blade with my finger while listening to cupboards opening and closing before there’s a soft knocking on the bedroom door and – shit! – the door itself opens and Giulietta comes in. I dive beneath the covers so fast it’s like an alarm’s gone off, but you just roll about exactly as you were without making any attempt to move. You’re always extraordinarily relaxed about things like this. I attribute it to your aloof, patrician streak that’s oblivious to other people’s opinions – rather like an aristocrat who wouldn’t think twice about a manservant emptying their chamber pot – and it sometimes bothers me that my own self-consciousness makes me look small-minded and provincial in comparison. But it’s never enough to stop me doing it, despite an awareness (secret and guilty), that if you were a woman I might not care so much about someone seeing us in bed together.</p><p>“<em>Mi dispiace signore</em>,” says Giulietta. Her Italian is too fast for me to follow but I know she’s talking about me from the fond, casual way you reach down to run your fingers through my hair where it’s sticking above the covers.</p><p>“<em>Non è affatto un problema</em>,” you say. “<em>Will sta bene</em>.”</p><p>For a few terrible moments I’m genuinely afraid that you’re about to have a full-blown conversation with her, deliberately stringing it out until I run out of oxygen and am forced to emerge from the darkness blinking like a cave-dweller. Fortunately Giulietta is more merciful than you are, and after a few more whispered words of Italian has crept out the room and discreetly closed the door behind her. It’s just as well – I really <em>was</em> about to run out of oxygen. You lift up the cover as a sign the coast is clear and I haul myself out again then collapse next to you on the pillow.</p><p>“A misunderstanding,” you say before I need to ask. “Giulietta didn’t realise we were at home…”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“…so she was apologising. She was concerned she might have disturbed you.” You pause and smirk slightly. “Naturally I allowed her to think that and didn’t tell her you were hiding rather than sleeping.”</p><p>I’m expecting you to add something else but you don’t and instead just sit there in silence while looking enormously pleased with yourself. God knows what you’re waiting for? Possibly you’re expecting me to thank you (in which case you can just keep waiting and marinate in your own smugness). As usual I’m the first one to run out of patience and end up grunting something unintelligible before reaching over to retrieve my jeans (currently tangled up with one of your designer shirts and looking rather sorry for themselves in comparison). You watch me for a few seconds then lean over yourself to take hold of my hips. Your grip feels firmly possessive and almost – but not quite – hard enough to hurt.</p><p>“Stop it,” I say. “Get off.”</p><p>You stare back at me without speaking, slow-blinking like a cat with your mouth arranged in a very faint smile. “Don’t get up,” you finally reply. I can tell immediately that you’re curating your tone: a dash of command leavened with just enough lightness to deny being controlling it if I try to call you out on it. “I want you to stay here with me.”</p><p>“No.” My voices comes out a bit sharper than intended so I turn round and give your hair a playful ruffle to make up for it. “You can’t just order me to get into bed. Do you think I’m your rent boy or something?” You don’t reply: knowing you, this almost certainly means you’re thinking <em>Well yes, tiny murder apprentice – obviously you are</em>. “Anyway we can’t,” I add. “Giulietta’s there.”</p><p>Your faint smile grows slightly broader. “Indeed she is. In the living room. Behind two closed doors.”</p><p>“No,” I repeat, even firmer than before. “Absolutely not.”  Oh God, I sound like Jack; I’m sure he’s said that to me in the past. Or maybe it was to both of us? Him leaning over his desk with that angry furrow between his eyebrows after a particularly unsuitable suggestion: ‘<em>No you two, absolutely not</em>.’ “Don’t be stupid,” I add out loud. “What’ll she think?”</p><p>“What do you mean ‘what’ll she think?’ She will think what is entirely obvious – why else would she leave so quickly? She’s guessed that I want us to be alone so I can make love to you.”</p><p>“No,” I repeat. “No <em>way</em>.” Now I sound faintly scandalised; less like Jack and more like someone’s elderly mother. To show I mean it I resume the hunt for my jeans, which unfortunately involves the indignity of hanging over the side of the bed with my ass swaying in the breeze while I rummage across the floor for them. It seems they’ve managed to knot themselves round your shirt in a particularly inaccessible way, almost as if you’ve done it on purpose. Possibly you have. In fact, given the unattainable angle, it’s like you and the shirt are in it together.</p><p>“Are you all right?” you ask with the tiniest hint of sarcasm.</p><p>“Obviously,” I reply. I say this with as much self-possession as it’s possible to muster – which admittedly, given my position, is not very much. <em>Oh come on</em>, I now mentally exhort to the jeans. <em>Give me a break</em>, <em>you complete bastards</em>. After what feels like several hours of wriggling I finally succeed in separating them, then tug them on with a hint of triumph before grabbing your discarded shirt because I can’t be bothered to find my own. The whole time I’m doing it I deliberately avoid catching your eye: partly because I’ve started to feel awkward, but mostly because I don’t want to give you a chance to bullshit me into changing my mind. The truth is I’d secretly quite like to stay, but I promised myself early on that I’d protect my independence by not giving in to your every request. Sometimes it’s over big things and sometimes it’s small, but the habit is a valuable one and something I’m determined not to break.</p><p>Mind-made-up I now leave you in bed (you’ll have started sulking like a massive, maniacal toddler by this point – I’ll bet <em>any</em> money on it) and go into the kitchen so I can say <em>ciao</em> to Giulietta and give her a hand with shovelling the remains of last night’s plates into the dishwasher. It always irritates you to see me helping her out, but I’m honestly past caring because I can’t stand to just sit there like some sort of pampered Man Child while a woman old enough to be my mother does the dishes I was too lazy to clean myself. <em>What do you think we’re paying her for?</em> you said the first time you saw me do it, but it’s not just a question of money. Well, partly it is. But really I think it’s more about solidarity than anything else. After all, there are people in life who wash dishes, and there are people who pay to have their dishes washed, and there’s no doubt I identify more with the former than the latter. I tried to explaining this to you once but you got the sort of expression on your face like I’d just whipped out a copy of <em>Das Kapital</em> and called you Comrade so I’ve never bothered again.</p><p>“<em>Grazie mille</em>,” says Giulietta. “You are a kind boy.” She smiles at me, her eyes dark and merry in her creased face like currants in a bun “Are you hungry?”</p><p>“I’m fine.” I gesture at one of the plates: a particularly over-the-top specimen of Chinese porcelain that in my previous life I would have been genuinely embarrassed to own. “I had a big meal last night.”</p><p>“You’re sure?” replies Giulietta. Her voice has taken on a coaxing tone, the kind I could imagine her using with a child. “I’ve brought you <em>fette biscottate.</em> They are the sort you like.”</p><p>Of course it’s almost impossible to find a way of refusing this without looking like a huge dick, so in the end I just take a piece from the bag and nibble it rather reluctantly while Giuletta beams away in the background. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror halfway through: I look like a large rodent. I’m honestly not sure what it is that makes people want to feed me up, but you and she are as bad as each other and between the two of you I have a feeling I’m going to wind up too massive to fit through the door. For a few seconds I drift off into an interesting fantasy of being airlifted out of bed once the ceiling’s been removed: I’ve just got to the part about Jack seeing an internet article about the Italian man being winched out his home by helicopter (and his expression when he realises it’s me) when Giulietta comes bustling back and I have to pick the biscuit up again and pretend I’m enjoying it. These motherly gestures are very typical of her and while they sometimes get embarrassing I still enjoy them more than I like to admit. Occasionally she’ll even pat my cheek or ruffle my hair, although I’ve noticed she never does it when you’re around. This wariness seems a bit excessive, yet it’s clear she’s realised you wouldn’t like her touching me without your permission. I think even your insane possessiveness could handle it though (possibly), because it’s obvious the doting isn’t remotely romantic and simply comes from the way I remind her of her own son. She even showed me a photo of him once. There was a definite physical resemblance, but what got to me more was his expression. So earnest and solemn in his <em>Carabinieri</em> uniform, like my ghostly twin – an image of the way I might have ended up if I’d never met you.</p><p>Right on cue you now walk into the kitchen and I quickly put the biscuit down. Not that ‘<em>walk</em>’ is exactly the right word. Walking is what normal people do, and it’s more like you swish into the kitchen with the same gravitas that an actor would Enter Stage Right. You proceed to pause at the doorway as if awaiting applause and Giulietta quickly turns her back on me and returns to the dishes with a polite <em>buongiorno. </em>This is typical, as she’s always noticeably more formal when you’re around. Her voice changes and acquires a tone of deference it never has with me, and while I’m plain old ‘Will’ you’re always ‘<em>Signore</em>’ or ‘<em>Dottore’</em>. I’m fairly sure she’s not afraid of you, yet despite how courteous you always are to her it’s clear she’s got a strong sense of where the boundaries should be. It’s an effect you have on most people and it sometimes makes me sad that you’re so often seen as aloof and unapproachable – cold, curious, and impersonal as a lunar landscape – when I know there’s far more to you than that.</p><p>In an effort not to exclude me Giulietta now begins to speak to you in English; and as if you’re reading my thoughts (and want to show that you’re in absolutely <em>no</em> need of sympathy, thank you very much little man) deliberately answer in the kind of rapid Italian that’s impossible for me to follow. It’s clear you’re doing it on purpose to punish me for earlier, so I pick up the paper and start reading that instead, turning the pages loudly and defiantly to show that I’m onto you and don’t care. Giulietta, oblivious to the tension, smiles at me then retrieves my glasses from the counter and hands them over without being asked.</p><p>“<em>Grazie</em>,” I say. “<em>Lo apprezzo</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Prego</em>,” replies Giulietta. She smiles again then turns round to you. “You have been teaching him?”</p><p>You don’t answer immediately so instead I say ‘yes’ for both of us. It’s been about a few months now, although I think it’s fair to say you’re enjoying the process a lot more than I am. We’re still limping along at the early stages so I’m being crammed with the kind of tedious characters that populate vocabulary books everywhere: pens, pencils, windows, bakers and asking directions to the beach. ‘<em>Omicidio</em>,’ I’ll sometimes say to liven it up a bit. ‘<em>Cannibalismo</em>.’ You don’t think I’m particularly funny although of course that doesn’t stop me doing it. Anyway, I like seeing you narrow your eyes and sigh: expressing long-suffering annoyance at absurdity in the same way as anyone else. It makes you seem more human. I recently learnt to pronounce ‘<em>Ti amo</em>’ instead to make up for it and for a few seconds your entire expression lighted up. It was nice to see. You normally have such a melancholy face, even when you’re happy: gaunt cheekbones and a funereal smile.</p><p>“<em>Ho bisogno di fare pratica con il me Italiano</em>,” I now say out loud.</p><p>“<em>Mio</em>,” replies Giulietta. “Not <em>me</em>. Otherwise – very good. You are a clever boy.” She turns back to you again, as if seeking permission for her opinion. “Isn’t he clever?”</p><p>“Indeed he is,” you say. “Although his accent is abominable.” As you’re speaking you catch my eye and your previous stony expression softens slightly. Giulietta promptly shrieks with protest on my behalf and I catch your eye again and feel myself struggling not to laugh.</p><p>“<em>Sì</em>,”I say. “<em>Abominevole</em>.”</p><p>You give me the ghost of a smile and when you walk past my chair I catch hold of your hand and give it a quick press. I’m already feeling guilty for the way I avoided you earlier – although admittedly the guilt is pretty short-lived, because as soon as Giulietta’s left I promptly regress to Avoidance Mode again and start intensely studying the newspaper in an attempt to dodge the conversation I suspect you’ll be wanting to have. From one extreme to the other: it’s actually pretty ironic. It’s <em>very</em> ironic – or at least it would be if irony hadn’t been dead and buried years ago where we’re concerned. I frown for a few seconds, mulling over the difficulty of dealing with ironic situations when irony itself is officially deceased. It’s as if the <em>corpse</em> of irony has been pulled from the grave, although somehow that’s still not quite good enough. No, it’s as if we’ve drop-kicked its body around the Cemetery of Satire to bounce off every gravestone, before re-shovelling dirt onto the corpse of irony and…</p><p>“Will?” you say.</p><p>“Hmmm.”</p><p>“I asked you if were going out today?”</p><p>“Oh right,” I say. “Sorry, I was…” <em>I was thinking about irony being murdered to death</em>. “I wasn’t listening.”</p><p>There’s another stilted pause; I clear my throat then turn the page of the newspaper, doing my best to simulate fascination with the progress of the local soccer team. The players are grinning broadly like smug bastards while brandishing a trophy, teeth impossibly white and even in their tanned faces.</p><p>“I know you’re not really reading that,” you finally say. “Your eyes are moving too slowly.”</p><p>Christ. I shrug rather irritably then watch from beneath my eyelashes as your outline uncurls itself from against the wall and takes a step forward.  “You can’t avoid me forever,” you add.</p><p>I turn over the page without looking up. “How am I avoiding you? I’m here aren’t I?”</p><p>You take another step forward, very slow and deliberate, and it suddenly strikes me that you’re trying to be intimidating. Or maybe you’re not. Maybe it’s just a case of old habits dying so hard that you don’t even realise you’re doing it. “You know what I mean,” you say.</p><p>Since Giulietta left I’ve been dodging all eye contact and you now walk over and take hold of my chin, gently but firmly forcing my head up until I’ve no choice but to look at you. It’s incredibly awkward and I do my best to arrange my features into a suitably <em>carpe diem</em>-like expression as I steel myself for the conversation ahead. <em>Mental preparation, strengthened resolve</em>…the phrase ‘girding one’s loins’ comes to mind. Even though it’s a rather stupid saying; what does it even mean anyway? Why would loins <em>want</em> to be girded…</p><p>“Will?” you repeat.</p><p>You sound amused – and a little impatient – and I start wondering, rather wildly, how you’d respond if I announced: ‘Don’t mind me, I’m just over here girding my loins – carry on.’ No doubt the <em>carpe diem</em> face is what’s raised the alarm; it’s probably less suggestive of mental fortitude than it is of someone in the throes of acute digestive distress (or possibly whose loins have been girded too tightly). <em>For God’s sake, </em>I think fretfully. <em>Get a grip on yourself you stupid shit</em>. Then I clear my throat, open my mouth, close it again, then neatly fold my hands into my lap while you raise your eyebrows expectantly. I sigh rather helplessly then watch as your eyebrows descend again and start to furrow over your nose. Of course even my avoidance levels can’t claim ignorance of what’s going on, but it’s tempting to try anyway because I’m still not ready to have anything remotely resembling a proper discussion. Oh God, I’m completely and utterly loinless aren’t I?  I am without loins to gird.</p><p>“Y-e-a-h,” I eventually say. “I know what you mean.” You give a satisfied nod, clearly pleased to hear me acknowledge it. “I’m just not sure what else to tell you,” I add. “At least not at the moment. I need more time to think.”</p><p>Naturally you don’t reply to this. Why would you? Long experience has taught me that you’ll always prefer to see me contort myself into increasingly anguished knots rather than do anything to reduce the tension yourself. The smart thing would be to call your bluff and start a conversation before my nerve (or, indeed, loins) fail me permanently, only this time I can’t seem to manage it because I genuinely don’t know what to say.</p><p>“Look, it’s not a commitment thing,” I finally manage. Oh God, that’s shit – surely I can do better than that? “You know I want to be together,” I add in a firmer voice. “You know that right? It’s just the thought of <em>marriage</em>…” I waver for a few seconds, struggling to think of a more dignified expression than ‘freaks me out’. “It feels a bit overwhelming.”</p><p>You dip your head like you’re about to respond and Zombie Irony promptly dies all over again, because despite being annoyed at your silence I’ve realised that I’m <em>really</em> not in the mood for one of your probing psychological speeches. Besides, it’s not like you’d have anything useful to add: your thoughts on human intimacy have always been the kind of stuff that gives bullshit a bad name. Abruptly I tug myself free so I can get to my feet and then falter a few seconds before leaning forward to give you a kiss. I’m aiming for your mouth, but by this time self-consciousness has made me clumsy and I end up mistiming it and bouncing off one of your cheekbones instead.</p><p>“<em>Ti amo</em>,” I say. “Always. But just leave it for the moment, okay? I need more time.”</p><p>Instead of replying you now dart out with one of your unnervingly fast movements and catch hold of my face, forcing it round again so you can gaze intensely into my eyes and try to stare me down. I hate it when you do this: it’s like you think we’ve gone back in time several years and you can spin any old crap you like and I’ll just accept it. Not that I can entirely blame you. After all, by dodging the issue so much I’ve pretty much guaranteed this would happen because emotional conflicts have always been like catnip to you. I honestly don’t know why I get myself into these situations sometimes. It’s like I’m a walking own goal.</p><p>“I mean it,” I say sharply. “Later.”</p><p>As a response this is deeply inadequate, but I’m still not ready for anything more substantive and it’s no good trying to pretend that I am. So in the end I just twist out your grasp then walk away for real – wondering the entire time in a fretful, guilty way about how much longer it’s going to be before ‘later’ actually comes.</p><p>****</p><p>I’d planned to go out this afternoon, but the recent tension is pincering my skull like a vice and after a couple of hours attempting to ignore it I wind up going to bed to try and soothe the headache away. It’s actually a pretty bad one, but I’ve already decided not to tell you because I know you’ll get really boring about it – possibly even doing something genuinely mortifying like attempting to take my temperature. I find your concern with my physical health…ironic, and have often told you so. Partly I think it’s the doctor in you coming out, but it’s also something else. Not <em>guilt</em> exactly (which you don’t do) and not anxiety either; at least not in the way that most people would understand it. But whatever it is the results are so exhausting that it’s made me highly motivated to avoid your scrutiny and keep all my ailments to myself. My face in the bathroom mirror is pinched and wan and even the freckles look miserable, so I dry-swallow some painkillers then go and lie down with an eye-mask like some sort of pensioner. I’m not intending to fall asleep, but the music I put on is so relaxing – and your lingering smell on the pillow so soothing – that I manage to do it anyway, eventually dozing through several hours straight so that when I finally wake up it’s already dark.</p><p>While it’s late enough for you to be in bed yourself there’s no sign of you, so I wrap a blanket round my shoulders and head downstairs in search where I find you sat in the kitchen with a sketchbook. This has become a semi-regular habit and it strikes me as ironic (again) that out of all the things you do, drawing in the middle of the night is one of the very few which I’ve chosen to single out as eccentric. You’re wearing the contented, absent expression you often have while sketching and the sight of you looking so exposed fills me with another wave of guilt at not being ready to give you what you want. I even get an urge to climb onto your knee and hug you – except this would be <em>beyond</em> embarrassing – so in the end just stand behind you instead and press my face against your neck. You reach round immediately with your free hand to stroke my hair.</p><p>“Look at you in your shroud,” you say fondly when the blanket falls against your wrist. “Like a little ghost.”</p><p>“I’m not litt…”</p><p>You make an amused sound, no doubt at how quickly I’ve taken the bait. “Oh yes, I believe we’d established that hadn’t we? I apologise. You are a true Titan.”</p><p>“Good. I accept your apology.”</p><p>“You are quite right to do so,” you say solemnly. “All five foot ten inches of you. In all the galaxies there is no greater Titan than you.”</p><p>I sign in an exaggerated way then give your ear a gentle tug with my teeth. “Come to bed.”</p><p>“In a moment. I’ve nearly finished.”</p><p>I crane forward across your shoulder to take a look, fully prepared to see another version of myself. It therefore doesn’t escape me (irony!) that after endless complaints about your obsessive sketching, now that you’ve chosen to draw someone else I don’t like that either.</p><p>“Who’s that?” I ask, trying my best to sound casual.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Your pencil briefly goes still as you pause to inspect the page from several angles. “She was in the <em>Piazza </em>several days ago and she happened to catch my eye. Very interesting face.”</p><p>“Yes,” I say lightly. “She has.”</p><p>Privately I console myself that it’s only your draughtsmanship which imbues this quality of interest and that in real life the woman herself would be reassuringly ordinary. Admittedly the picture doesn’t seem glamourous in the traditional TV-and-movie kind of way, yet the piercing eyes and determined tilt of the mouth still create an impression that’s undeniably striking. When I look a bit closer I even feel a faint stirring of familiarity, although after I’ve turned it round in my mind it remains so weak and unsubstantial that I end up dismissing it completely – further proof, surely, of it being the sort of boringly commonplace face that could belong to anyone.</p><p>“Did you talk to her?” I add. I hate how this question looks – so clingy and paranoid – but it’s out before I can stop myself.</p><p>“No.” You sound genuinely surprised. “Why would I?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” I reply in the same casual way. “Because she was there, I guess. Because she looked interesting.”</p><p>You dart me a quick glance. “Not as interesting as all that. Besides, there were several factors that countered against it.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Like the fact it was late and I was growing bored, and I needed to get home so you could be rude to me.”</p><p>This makes me smile, relieved in spite of myself. “That sounds like progress,” I say. “I never thought you’d learn to expand your tolerance for rudeness.”</p><p>You smile too then stretch your arms out in front of you, lithe and supple as a cat flexing its paws. “Not especially; you’ve always been the exception that proves the rule. Why do you think I used to see you at the end of the day when all my other patients had left?”</p><p>“I don’t know Dr Lecter, why did you?”</p><p>“Because you were my reward to myself for enduring the idiocies of the others. Saving you for last…like an especially delectable dessert.”</p><p>I laugh then give you a playful jab in the back of your neck. “Oh shut up. Do you have any idea how weird that sounds?”</p><p>“No doubt it does,” you reply in the usual sardonic way. “Although the analogy fails regardless, because it implies the others were the main course and they were never that substantial.”</p><p>“It fails period.” You stretch again as I’m speaking so I reach down to rub your shoulders for you, digging my thumbs into the tight knot of muscle and enjoying the appreciative way you lean into the touch. I suppose you must be pretty cramped; you’ve probably been sat like this for hours. Just you and the unknown woman with her interesting face. “I don’t want to be the dessert,” I add out loud. “Too flimsy and saccharine.”</p><p>“In that case you should be whatever you want to be. This particular meal can be <em>service </em><em>à la Fran</em><em>çaise</em>: all courses served simultaneously.”</p><p>“Then I’ll be the after-dinner cigars.”</p><p>“Naturally you will,” you say with amusement. “Incendiary, addictive and potentially hazardous to one’s health.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s great. Well done. You’re so romantic aren’t you? Oh sorry – I meant pedantic.”</p><p>You give a massive smirk then flex yourself forward as a sign you want to be massaged further down your back. “Yes, I dare say,” you continue. “Although while it’s very diverting to be insulted by you I assume that wasn’t the original point you were intending to make?  Or perhaps it was – in which case feel free to carry on. I find myself strangely content to sit here and have you lecture me about my shortcomings.”</p><p>“Your comings are never short.”</p><p>“Oh, shocking. What a filthy mouth you have Agent Graham. Did you read people their rights with that mouth?”</p><p>I laugh again and then lean forward too so I can prop my chin on the top of your head. “Seriously though…”</p><p>“I am being entirely serious.”</p><p>“<em>Seriously</em>,” I say. My voice is muffled from where my mouth is pressed against your hair so I shift a bit until I’m facing sideways and can rest my cheek against it instead. “I want you to be more careful when you’re out,” I add. “I mean it – remember what we agreed.”</p><p>“I’m hardly likely to forget,” you reply drily. “What’s the matter Will? So much anxiety over a simple sketch.”</p><p>“It’s not just that. You know they’re still looking for you.”</p><p>“Ah. And I suppose this is your way of warning me not to talk to strangers?</p><p>“What if someone recognises you?” I say. “You’re so…” I hesitate, trying to think of a way of expressing it that won’t sound rude. “You’re so distinctive.”</p><p>“Someone recognised me before,” you reply calmly. “I dealt with it.”</p><p>“No, you were <em>lucky</em>.” You make a sceptical sound, clearly waiting for me to explain how anything could be accounted for by mere luck as opposed to your God-tier skill level. For the life of me I’ll never understand how your arrogance manages to be attractive when I’d find it repellent in anyone else. “What if he’d decided to go straight to the police?” I add in an attempt to spell it out. “Rather than going after you himself?” I pause with the massage and give you a rather malicious poke in the ribs. “Rather than cash you in for the bounty money?”</p><p>“He <em>was</em> the police,” you say calmly. “Besides, he did go to them – he went to Jack. And I dealt with that too.”</p><p>“Only just.” You shrug dismissively and I sigh to myself then crane across your shoulder to where the newspaper is lying discarded from this morning. “I suppose you saw?” I add in a deliberately ominous way. “There’s been another murder.”</p><p>“I saw.”</p><p>“And? What do you think?”</p><p>“What do you mean ‘what do I think’?” You sound amused again now, although whether it’s genuine or you’re just toying with me isn’t entirely clear. Even now I can still find you difficult to read. “I suppose I could give you my professional opinion,” you add in a more thoughtful voice. “That he’s escalating; that the worst is still to come. But I can’t imagine you’d be very interested in that – you already know it yourself.”</p><p>“Well…” I swallow audibly, an ugly scraping noise in the back of my throat, then leave an even longer pause before deciding to simply blurt it out. “What if they send for help in catching him?” I say, and it all comes out in a rush. “<em>What if they send for Jack?</em>”</p><p>As soon as I say that I can see your expression flicker: that weird gleam in your eyes which is a sure sign you’ve had your interest roused. <em>The game is afoot</em>. “Well if they do, they do,” is all you reply. “Only he’s not here now, is he? And is therefore of little relevance.”</p><p>I don’t buy this indifference for a second – I can’t believe the possibility hadn’t at least <em>occurred</em> to you before now – but it’s obvious you’re not going to elaborate on it, and until you decide you want to it’s completely pointless to try. Besides, there’s no doubt that the idea of half the FBI descending in Italy is never going to bother you the way it does me. You’d probably be disappointed if Jack <em>doesn’t</em> turn up.</p><p>I now get so preoccupied with imagining this that it takes me a few moments to realise you’ve started speaking again – and which, completely as predicted, is one of your radical subject changes that I’ll never believe aren’t a deliberate attempt to disorientate whoever you’re talking to. Specifically, you seem to be saying that you’re not at all interested in Jack (yeah right) and are more concerned about me.</p><p>“What do you mean?” I ask, even though I already know. Honestly, I’m such an epic bullshitter sometimes; I don’t really know why I complain so much about you doing it.</p><p>“You’ve spent most of today asleep,” you reply. You’ve adopted a brisk, doctorly tone and I stare back a bit dumbly; for a surreal moment I think you’re about to pull a stethoscope out from somewhere. “Why don’t you ever tell me when you’re feeling unwell?”</p><p>“Because you always overreact,” I say gruffly.  You make a sceptical noise that I suppose is meant to contradict me, but I can’t really be bothered to argue over it. We both know I’m right. “Anyway, it was nothing,” I add. “Just a headache.”</p><p>“You’re feeling better now?”</p><p>“Much better.”</p><p>“Sure?”</p><p>“Positive.”</p><p>“That’s good,” you say crisply. “I was hoping as much. Because I happen to have a plan in mind, and it requires you to be at full strength.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yes.” Your voice has taken on that smoky, smouldering undertone that makes it seem like you’re purring and at the sound of it I have a fairly good idea <em>exactly</em> what you’re going to ask. Even so, I still wait in silence to let you say it anyway. “I want to go out tomorrow night,” you continue, completely undeterred by my lack of response. “And I want you to come with me.”</p><p>Even now you can’t resist being cryptic – even when there’s no one listening and nothing left to hide – but of course I know without being told that ‘going out’ is really a delicate euphemism for a hunt. And while I’d once have started to argue about it, I’m now so long past the point of trying to deceive either you or myself that I don’t even pretend to object and simply press against your shoulder in silent ascent.  </p><p>“We have to be careful though,” I add. “I mean it. There are police everywhere.”</p><p>You’ve turned your face away now but I can still hear the smile in your voice when you reply. “When have you ever been careful Will?” you say. “Caution is such a tyrant: it inhibits the more fascinating impulses. <em>You</em> on the other hand – you’ve always preferred to revel in the pleasure of your bad choices.” There’s another pause and you slowly tilt your head back, dark eyes gleaming in the shadows. “Just as I have.”</p><p>Distilling conflict into such neat little equations is a gift you have, and as much as I sometimes resent it there’s still something seductive about having an impulse so cleanly sliced into its component parts. It’s a reassuring dissection which never has room for guilt or doubt, and I close my eyes for a few seconds, mentally willing you to be correct in your belief that the eye of the storm really is the safest place for us to be. Surely you’re right after all? Running the rift between reason and recklessness…it’s always served us so well in the past. We’d hardly be here now if it hadn’t.</p><p>“Okay, fine,” I reply. Beneath my fingers I feel the muscles in your shoulder flex and I press down against them, imagining I can feel the roar and thrum of your heartbeat. “Tomorrow. Let’s do it.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Ti amo = ‘I love you’ And speaking of lerrrve, thank you *so much* to everyone who left supportive messages on the last chapter. Not to get too dramatic about it, but as some of you know I left the fandom following some pretty sustained harassment on AO3 and coming back after such a long time wasn’t a very easy decision. Lol, to give you a sense of what a scaredy-cat I am, Chapter 1 was written 6 months ago and I just sat on it because I didn’t know if I had the energy to deal with anymore trolling. Last week’s positivity was a fantastic reminder of why I started writing fanfic in the first place (apart from Hannigram obsession, of course) and I appreciate all of you more than I can say! (And if you’re reading without commenting but just enjoying the fic in private, then I love you too and you’re also more than welcome here!) Take good care of your lovely selves in the meantime and see you next Saturday xox</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey lovelies. I know there’re some people who read my fics for the emotional/psychological themes rather than explicit Hannigram, so just to warn you that from now on the story will be fully earning its E-rating. If this is something you’re uncomfortable with then you’ll find it’s pretty clearly marked and easy to skip over (and rest assured the remainder is rated F for Fluff; S for Sass; and B for bickering like an old married couple). Lol, it’s usually about halfway through before my fics start getting smutty but let’s just say there’s no slow burn in this one at all ;-D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Together, we’re running.</p><p>Simultaneous and side-by-side, we move: shoes pounding on the sidewalk, bodies slicing through the shadows, feet on fire. I enjoy watching you run. You do it so rarely there’s a certain novelty value in it, but mostly it’s because of how striking it makes you look. It’s like something inside you ignites and you just go for it, despite always being very graceful in the way you move. Balletic, almost. Lithe and sinuous with a lot of strength from your hips, the same way as a racehorse does, with a coiled-up energy that’s elegant to watch but according to you is nothing more than a strategy to help you move faster. And you are: you’re <em>fast</em>. Faster than me, although only by a little – never more than few paces ahead. The mutual speed is exhilarating and for a few seconds I close my eyes, one foot flying in front of the other as gusts of air blast my face. The way the streetlights flicker makes the shadows pulsate as if there are figures hiding in them and I open my eyes again just in time for them to swallow me up. Overhead the moon is a piece of bright bone in the sky: a glinting slice of silver that bathes you in a metallic tint and bleaches your face as pale as a phantom beyond the single streak of black blood across your cheekbone. Two dark holes for eyes and features as chiselled and planed as a Medieval death mask…you look sinister, but I really don’t care because I know I look the same. We <em>are</em> the same aren’t we? We always have been. Like to like.</p><p>As I watch you take a sudden sharp turn so I quickly swerve round too, happy to defer to a knowledge of the area that’s far more detailed than mine is. We’re usually skilled enough at staying unseen that the running isn’t necessary, but tonight is different because something went wrong. I’d already suspected it might. A serial killer at large always drives a city into frenzy so naturally the police presence would double…and it only ever takes one to see something they shouldn’t. If it was up to you then the solution would have been quicker and much more lethal, but I refuse to harm an innocent person just doing their job. And so – we run. It was a simple decision because he never saw our faces, but deep down I know that one day that luck might well run out and I’ll be forced to choose between the relative worth of our freedom <em>vs</em>. another person’s life. Sometimes I even try to imagine it, weighing up one against the other like Lady Justice with her scales. It haunts me that when the moment comes I’ll make the wrong choice, even though I’m still not entirely sure which option is the right one. But at least that day is not today. One day, possibly…but not right now.</p><p>“<em>Innocent</em>,” you’d repeated, the first time I told you about my rule. “You’re so quaint sometimes Will. Why not just recite your Pledge of Allegiance and then bask in how righteous you are?” Your tone was a mixture of amusement and incredulity and I remember wincing at how annoying it was. “Guilt and innocence are such fixed concepts,” you’d added, tipping your wine glass in my direction like you were proposing a toast. “Yet see how morality itself is always relative? We should separate matters of fact from matters of value.”</p><p>“<em>Should</em> we?” The sarcasm in my voice was blunt enough to quell a lump of granite but even then it wasn’t enough to deter you. It was no way near enough. </p><p>“Naturally,” you’d replied. “Of course we should.” By that point I’d stopped looking at you, but I could still hear the smile in your voice. “Why not? No single perspective is ever the whole truth, after all.”</p><p>From your perspective it was all so simple but I still refused to back down – and to my considerable surprise (and no doubt yours as well) you were the one who gave in first. Admittedly you’ve never been very gracious about it and spend a lot of time complaining about how I’m trying to turn you into some sort of vigilante. This is usually followed by a disdainful little sniff – maybe even an outright frown if you’re feeling particularly annoyed – but the obvious resentment hasn’t been enough to stop you respecting my preferences. It’s just one of many compromises we’ve needed to make, although it’s also true that I don’t know what you do when you’re alone and have made a point never to ask. This disappoints you, I’m certain: I think you’d love me to question you about it. But your standards of worthiness are so frightening and arbitrary that any attempt to mesh them with my own remains a step beyond where I’m willing to go. You’re such a paradox that way because you do have your own moral code – it’s just not like anyone else’s. It exists though, I know it does. You’ve never seen yourself as the villain in your own mind.</p><p>Ahead of me you now draw to a halt, briefly turning your head like a lion scenting the air before leaning back against the wall with your hands in your pockets. You could be a tourist pausing to admire the view and the contrast between the casual pose and the urgency of the situation is so surreal that I feel my lips twitching with an absurd urge to laugh. You catch my eye then give a grim little smile as beyond the alleyway is a crash of footsteps accompanied by a storm of male voices yelling in Italian. Your Sphinx-like smile promptly grows broader and I tip my head back against the brick and draw in a long lungful of air as I wonder if tonight really <em>is</em> going to be the night – if those footsteps turn left instead of right and force me to make the choice I don’t trust myself to make. <em>One breath in and one breath out</em>, I think wildly. <em>The trick is to keep breathing</em>. The noise gets louder and louder as they draw closer to the alleyway but ultimately nothing happens and they carry on past us after all: a chaotic clatter of sound and fury signifying nothing which gradually fades away into the night. Across from me your eyes are gleaming in the darkness and I can immediately tell how disappointed you are to be denied the confrontation.</p><p>I draw in another breath then droop my head down as I let it come rushing out again in a long stream of relief. Ironically it’s only now the danger’s passed that my brain and body reconnect and the full force of it hits me in a sickly surge of adrenaline, a sting of lactic acid in every muscle and a sense that my lungs feel ready to burst. <em>Bursting lungs</em>…it’s such a strange expression. Is that even possible? For a few seconds my mind starts to drift as I wonder what would happen if they actually did, how it would look and feel? Would they slowly sigh and sink in on themselves, deflating like tired balloons, or rupture apart splashily and showily like scarlet glass? Your own rib cage is rising and falling a little faster than usual, but beyond that you look frighteningly calm: fixed and motionless as living taxidermy or some kind of sinister museum specimen that might come to life without warning. The contrast between us is a striking one, but the knowledge of it reassures me because I know I wouldn’t ever want to be as soulless about it as you are.</p><p>I remember you asking me that once several years ago, a different version of you speaking to a different version of me. ‘<em>Did your heart race when you murdered him?’</em> The implication was that a racing heart was a sign of weakness because yours never did: it indicated fear, and I should be striving for a sort of bleak serenity in the face of death and carnage. But my racing heart and pulsing blood are a reminder that I don’t see what I’m doing as normal; an emblem to cling onto that I’ve still not been consumed by the kind of void I always feared I might be. I read something about that once. I can’t remember exactly where, but the sentiment has been burnt on my brain ever since: <em>He who fights with monsters should look to it that he does not himself become a monster. And when you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you. </em>It was probably (certainly) linked to you somehow, because where else would I come across a line like that? But then you knew as well as I did that the monsters I pursued ended up destroyed by what they were; the difference was that you decided very early on that you didn’t want to see me destroyed the same way. And so I haven’t been: and neither, come of think of it, have you. But while you have your own methods of resisting the abyss my racing heart remains a reassuring sign of mine – a literal last gasp at humanity.</p><p>I now let out another shaky breath then finally open my eyes again. I can see you staring at me in that fixed, unblinking way you have so make a gesture with my hand to indicate I want to stay here a little longer to ensure the coast is clear. You dip your head in agreement and I nod at you in return before leaning back against the bricks. All this is confirmed without making a sound and it reminds me of the uncanny ability we often have to communicate with one another without ever speaking a word. In fact in a parallel universe it might even win us something on ‘America’s Got Talent’ because we’re <em>really</em> good at it. To prove the point I now pull a wry expression at you to indicate apology for the situation and you quirk your mouth into a smile to show me it’s fine. Technically of course I haven’t really done anything, but I still feel a certain responsibility seeing how it was me who picked tonight’s target. In fact it’s nearly always me (although you’ll sometimes make suggestions) and the whole process is almost unbelievably ghoulish. I mean it’s full-on fucked up to a truly epic level: sorting through clippings, message boards and parole board filings over morning coffee the same way other couples would browse through holiday brochures. ‘<em>What about this</em>?’ I’ll say to you when I spot something promising. ‘<em>How about him?</em>’ My criteria are fairly simple – that they have to have done something bad enough to deserve it – and mostly you’ll agree with my selections, although I still have no real clue what your own criteria are. Possibly you reject them because they don’t pose enough of a challenge? In fact that’s almost certainly one, because I remember taunting you once about how your habit of targeting musicians and art dealers meant you weren’t a true predator and I suspect that the accusation stung and made you want to prove me wrong.</p><p>“Oh just relax can’t you?” I’d said eventually. “You know I was joking.” I don’t think it made any difference though: I guess as far as you’re concerned such topics aren’t a laughing matter. And sure enough you returned to it a few days later, biding your time and mulling it over until I was least expecting it and you could take hold of my face in your hand and gaze at me with one of your more smouldering stares.</p><p>“Of course, humans are supposed to be the true apex predators,” you said. “We are at the top of the so-called food chain.” Then you’d given one of those unsettling smiles you have and leaned forward to ghost your lips along the edge of my jaw. “So at the top of the food chain are humans…” you added, and then you’d just stopped and smiled again. You never did complete the rest, but of course you didn’t need to because I already knew exactly what you were thinking. You meant: ‘And on top of the humans is <em>me</em>. Me…and now you.’</p><p>*****</p><p>We get back to the apartment shortly after 23.00, stepping in and out of the shadows with my hand in yours before slipping inside without speaking. Partly the silence is to avoid alerting the neighbours, but mostly it’s a sign of mutual confederacy because there’s simply no need to talk. Maybe there should be but there isn’t – there’s <em>never</em> any need to discuss what we’ve done. Shutting the door feels like a final barrier between ourselves and the rest of the world, but when I’ve turned the key and move to flick the lights on you catch hold of my wrist to stop me. Your face is an eerie chiaroscuro in the darkness and I can’t help thinking that you never seem to blink and how intimidating it is because it’s so unnatural. It’s like a snake or some other reptile: rigidly cold-blooded and unwavering and permanently poised to pounce. The analogy is a fitting one, but I’d still never say it out loud. Admittedly you don’t have many feelings to hurt, but I can’t imagine you’d want to hear that even now I sometimes seem hardwired to find you unsettling.</p><p>“Get off me,” I say now, half-amused and half-annoyed. “What’s the matter with you? I’m not standing here in the dark.”</p><p>You’ve still got that trace of blood on your face. I use my sleeve to wipe it off, but even then you don’t reply. Instead you just move a step forward then tighten your grip on my wrist, and it’s only when I take a proper look at your expression that I finally figure out what’s going on. Then after that I have to resist an urge to start smirking, because I really should have worked it out sooner – in fact if it hadn’t been for all the running I almost certainly would have done. But in hindsight it’s very obvious that you’re about to have one of your possessive moods, which means for the next hour or so things are going to get very intense. In the early days these episodes used to happen a lot but you don’t do it that often now; probably because you’re used to me being around and have grown more confident that I’m not going to leave you. But you’ve never managed to move past it entirely, so when it <em>does</em> happen it makes you go all-out in what’s essentially a desire to dominate and take me over. It’s like you need to prove a point to yourself about my willingness to be with you and it’s actually kind of primal. Primitive<em>, </em>almost: a carefully controlled ferocity with a hint of danger hidden <em>just</em> below the surface. In a way it makes me think of the mindless state of longing that propels animals into heat, because it’s like sense and reason are briefly disregarded then distilled into an insatiable, survivalist urgency to be claimed, consumed, and owned. The first time it happened I was vaguely freaked out by it, but I don’t mind anymore now that I understand what the reasons are. In fact out of the two of us it’s you who seems to struggle the most, because you always seem so remote and self-conscious afterwards (or at least you do by your standards, which are admittedly fairly high). I think it’s because you regret losing control of yourself so obviously, and I’ve found that the best way to deal with you is to be extremely docile and affectionate so you can understand that I know you need me and don’t have a problem with you showing it.</p><p>By this time you’ve managed to edge me up against the wall, deliberately using your greater height and strength to try and box me in. It’s weird to think I was once intimidated by you doing this. Now I just find it annoying (and, if I’m honest, more than a little amusing in how over-the-top it is). Likewise I know you enjoy the way I refuse to concede any ground whenever it happens, despite the fact I have a limited chance of overpowering you. <em>You always look so stubborn</em>, you said once. <em>The way you hunch your shoulders; you have defiance written all over you</em>. You were implying that you found the futility of my resistance rather adorable – even so, you still seem to understand what the boundaries are and never try to push me too far. But then of course you don’t really have to, because you also know I’d no longer want to fight you off.</p><p>I can hear your breath in the darkness by now – how low and harsh it is – along with the faint rustle of your coat where you’re prowling closer towards me. It’s vaguely unsettling, but I was already prepared for it because a key feature of these moods is how quiet you are when you’re having them. In fact the silence has gone on so long it’s starting to feel oppressive, but while I’d like to do something to break it I can’t think what to say. Only it turns out not to even matter, because before I can try your hand is knotting into my hair and you’re searching out my mouth to kiss me. It’s so wild and possessive that it feels less like a normal embrace and more like flaying away the last layers of distance before one person merges into the other, and in a weird way helps me understand why you derive such sensuous pleasure from food because the language certainly corresponds. <em>Hunger. Crave. Consume. Thirst. Appetite</em>. As I tangle my fingers into your own hair you make a sound that’s close to a growl then slam your lips against mine again, stabbing your tongue into my mouth as I grind against you and imagine I can feel your heartbeat pulsing against my own. Actually, I think I can. I’m <em>sure</em> I can…fierce and fiery and fully alive.</p><p>You’re repeating my name now, elegantly extending each letter like you’re savouring the sound of them before dipping your head to inhale along my throat. You murmur to yourself in a foreign language as you do it; something that often happens when you’re in one of these moods, and which I’ve always assumed is a way to let yourself lose control while keeping a level of privacy because I can’t understand what you’re saying. I’m still onto you though. I once tried Googling some of it phonetically, and while I’ve never managed a full translation there’s no doubt that multilingual words for ‘love’ feature on the regular.</p><p>With this in mind I now briefly pull away to cup your face, stroking your jaw with my thumb then giving you a faint smile. This is my way of telling you I understand what you need – and am okay with you having it – and you meet my eye for a few seconds of appreciation before quickly snapping back to Controlling Mode again: hoisting me into your arms (your hand cradling the back of my skull to protect it from the impact) then roughly swinging me onto the floor. I let out an ‘<em>oof</em>’ of surprise when you smash down on top of me, after which there’s a period of frenzied scrabbling at each other’s clothes – including the sound of splitting fabric when you lose patience with my shirt and pretty much rip it off – before you finally let go of me and lean back on your heels. I can hear myself panting in the darkness and my eyes are screwed shut even though I don’t remember closing them. It’s only been a few minutes and the intensity is already getting close to overwhelming, although there’s no doubt it’s in the best possible way. No wonder you value etiquette and boundaries so much – it certainly increases the pleasure of demolishing them. Suitably enough there’s the sound of breaking glass from where we’ve smashed something, although I don’t know what it is and I don’t care.</p><p>“Will,” you say sharply. “I’m waiting. Please don’t make me ask twice.”</p><p>For a few seconds I’m genuinely confused until I realise you’ve been telling me to spread my legs apart and I’ve been so spaced-out I’ve ignored you. Your tone is very severe, although it’s impossible to tell whether the annoyance is genuine or not. I suspect it most likely isn’t. Honestly, you’re such a drama queen when you want to be; I crack my eyes open then frown at you as a silent warning not to over-do it. You dip you head in equally silent acknowledgement (the closest you’ll ever get to actually apologising) then skim your lips across my forehead before lifting my hand to your mouth to lick along my palm. You alternate a tender nip of teeth with swirling your tongue across the tips of my fingers and I quiver slightly then tilt my head back, deliberately bearing my throat as a sign that you’re forgiven for being a bossy old bastard and have permission to carry on. Your response is to immediately stroke my face again – brushing my lower lip, caressing my jaw – although it’s not long before a warm hand starts to slide along my throat, down my ribs, then finally smooths its way across my waist to rub feathery little circles against my hipbones. My breath promptly hitches so you dart forward again to ease my mouth open with your tongue, gently pushing and stroking inside until I’ve started to shiver and let out small breathy moans (embarrassing, but unavoidable). In fact I’m getting so turned on it’s tempting to reach down and get myself off on my own – and would probably just do it too, except for the fact I know when you’re in a mood like this there’s no way you’d let me. Not, admittedly, that you’re ever all that happy about it, because you always get insanely jealous at the thought of me enjoying my body and getting any kind of pleasure from it without you being directly involved as well. I honestly think you’d ban me from jerking off completely if you thought you could get away with it. As a compromise you’ll often ask me to do it in front of you instead, and while I was tempted to refuse on principle I’ve since discovered that I like it enough not to mind humouring you every now and then. I won’t always agree, but when I do it usually happens lying on your chest with your arms around me while you do your best to choreograph the whole thing: giving instructions for how to move and what sounds to make, then ordering me to say your name over and over when I start to come.</p><p>I now have a private smile to myself at how overly intense you always manage to be.  I mean you <em>really</em> are; it’s actually quite endearing. By this time you’re kneeling in front of me again, no doubt preparing to do God-knows-what, but despite the closeness the fact we’re not touching makes you seem very far away. I don’t like it. Blindly I reach into the darkness so I can take hold of your hand and cling to it: urgent, adoring, and so in love I can barely think. You lean down to kiss me again and for a few seconds I can feel your cock pressing up against me. Oh Jesus, you’re <em>so</em> hard…I don’t know how you can stand to wait any longer. In fact the anticipation is driving me so wild that when I feel you spit onto my ass I lose control entirely and end up flinging my arm across my face in a way that’s far more dramatic than planned. You make a soothing sound between your teeth then gently massage the rim with the slippery pad of your thumb, stroking and rubbing to coax me into loosening up for you without ever actually pushing in. I draw in a breath, hold it, and then let it all rush out again in a low moan as you lower your head to start lapping at me with the flat of your tongue. It alternates between slow licks, teasing kisses and long languorous swipes; but it’s not until my legs are trembling and I’m making frantic panting sounds that you narrow the tip into a hard enough point to push past the tight clench of muscle and really start working me open.</p><p>My whole body goes rigid and I hear myself gasping “Oh Hannibal, <em>oh</em>. Oh fuck,” in a desperate sort of chant as my eyes widen and I gulp in helpless gasps of air. It doesn’t matter how often this happens: I’m still not fully used to it and the squirming combination of pleasure and humiliation is incredibly overwhelming. And of course you’re <em>well</em> aware of this, so always respond by making it even more intense: lavishing messy spit-slick kisses across my thighs, applying a few more teasing strokes with your thumb, then narrowing your tongue for a second time to breach me even deeper with the tip. I make a sound that’s close to wail, then briefly imagine I can feel you smiling against my skin before I’m getting spread wide open with both hands as you bury your face between my legs and start to eat me out. It feels unbelievable. Blissful yet shameful, with your tongue so wet, warm and thick as it slides in and out of my ass – passionate and sensuous like I’m something delectable you can’t get enough of. My stomach’s getting soaked from where I’m leaking pre-come all over myself, but when I jerk my hips to get more pressure you put your hands on them to force me to keep still. I moan even louder to give you a hint; you completely ignore me and just continue licking in slow circles, probing and exploring until the I can feel the ring of muscle actually start to quiver against your lips.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” I say. I sound a bit desperate; it’s kind of embarrassing. I can’t help it though, because I can feel the way I’m getting tighter – oh God, <em>so</em> tight – and there’s a real possibility I’m going to end up coming round your tongue. My cock is practically pulsing against my stomach, getting harder and heavier and seeming to twitch with each flick of your mouth, but while the frustrated discomfort is close to unbearable I know if I try to touch myself you’ll stop me.</p><p>“God, just fuck me can’t you?” I manage to gasp out. “What’s the matter with you? What are you waiting for?”</p><p>Even as I’m saying it I know there’s no point, not when you’re in this sort of mood – you’ll give me what I want, but only when <em>you</em> decide you want to and not a single second before. “I need…” I try to say, then groan and bite my lip as two long fingers slide inside me, pull out nearly all the way, then wait a few teasing seconds before plunging straight back in. Another rush of pre-come promptly spills down my cock and you lean back on your heels so you can watch, letting out a low sigh of approval before finally lowering your head again to swirl your tongue across the stretched, sensitive skin where you’re scissoring and stretching me open.  It’s feels insanely good and I can’t stop myself writhing around like I’m riding your fingers, pushing down almost wildly as my ass clenches round them with each thrust. I let out a series of broken-off moans the entire time and you lean over to cover my mouth with yours as if you’re trying to swallow them whole.</p><p>“Oh God. I need it,” I gasp out. I’m twitching and shuddering from how intense it feels…I’m not sure how much more I can take. <em>“</em>I need <em>you</em>. Please.”</p><p>I deliberately work a twist of anguish into my voice like I’m genuinely upset (I actually end up over-doing it a bit; I sound like I’m about to cry). It’s utter bullshit of course, but fortunately you fall for it anyway and decide to show a bit of mercy for once. Impatience or anger would make you torment me even longer, but years of experience has shown how susceptible you are to signs of me in distress and I figure there’s no harm in exploiting it every so often. It’s a genuine weakness of yours – one of the very few you possess – and even after all these years you can’t always reliably tell when I’m using it on purpose to manipulate you. I allow myself another secret smile: for someone widely renowned as a cold-hearted bastard you’re actually a massive pushover. Then I lie completely still and stretch my arms above my head, taking advantage of the pause to try and get my breath back. There’s no lube nearby, and no way either of us will pull apart long enough to find some, but by this point I’m past caring if it hurts or not.</p><p>As I watch you drop a quick kiss on my hipbone then reach across to where your coat is lying on the floor. For a bizarre moment it looks like you’re about to leave (and I’m just getting ready to sit up and yell at you) when I see you’re rifling through the pocket to retrieve a small plastic bottle. You must have stashed some there earlier I suppose…no doubt you’d been planning for this to happen up against an alley wall if all that running hadn’t ruined things. As if confirming this you catch my eye for a quick smile then flick the lid off before kneeling down to take hold of my cock with one hand, delicately squeezing the tip to watch the pre-come seeping out. I give another moan, followed up with an urgent <em>‘Please’</em> for extra effect. I’m doing it on purpose now, but I know that begging always drives you wild and I love watching you lose control of yourself in such an obvious way. If I asked you’d deny it, but I’m convinced it’s a fulfilment of a private fantasy which after years of waiting has finally come true: the idea of having me laid out beneath you, naked, pleading, pinned in place and absolutely desperate for you to fuck me.</p><p>Almost like you’ve read my thoughts you lean forward to lick a bead of sweat from my shoulder then briefly bury your face in my hair. “That’s it,” you say, your voice very low and intense. “Is this what you want Will? Is it what you’ve been waiting for?”</p><p>You normally use endearments when we’re having sex but I’ve noticed during moods like this then you’re more likely to call me by my actual name. I’m not sure how deliberate it is, although the fact you do it at all supports my theory that you’re acting out something you wish had happened much sooner. In your mind this is probably taking place on your office floor or your kitchen table, possibly even the back seat of your car (actually no, not your car; you’re too pretentious for that…there’s no way). Of course you’d never have called me ‘<em>beloved</em>’ or ‘<em>dearest</em>’ back then, so it makes sense that saying it now would jolt you out of whatever mental scenario you’re currently living out. Likewise you’re still making me lie on my back, and I know you’ll keep me that way on purpose so you can see my expression while you’re fucking me. Apparently I always look shocked to begin with, as if I can’t quite process how much I like it, and it’s easy to guess that the reason you enjoy it so much is because it’s a reminder that no one’s ever done this to me except you.</p><p>I now give a loud moan of agreement, despite the question being totally unnecessary because you already know exactly what I want. In fact I’m almost shaking with the strain of it by now: panting with eagerness then helplessly canting my hips as you take hold of your cock to rub the thick, blunt head of it against me in anticipation of thrusting straight in. The top of my thighs are still wet with saliva and I don’t think it would have even mattered if you hadn’t found the lube. You’ve got me so loose and slippery that my body’s going to be incredibly easy to breech, almost embarrassingly so…you’ll be able to slide deep inside with no effort at all. The expectation is overwhelming and I moan again as you start to move forward with a slowness that’s deliberately tantalising: just a centimetre at a time – less than that. <em>Just</em> enough to feel the tight rim of muscle quiver then finally give way as the tip of your cock pushes in. I gasp loudly as it happens, which makes you smile then take hold of a handful of my hair, slowly tugging my head back until my throat’s exposed. You’re close enough now to grab your shoulders and so I do, clinging onto you like nothing else matters. It’s true anyway…nothing else does.</p><p>My hair’s so damp it’s started to tangle in my eyes; you smile again when you notice then reach over to smooth it away. Then after that you just stare for a few seconds in total silence before leaning down to kiss me, much gentler than before but just as sincerely. I murmur your name a few times but don’t add anything else. There’s no point. Right now I want you more than I have words to say, so why even try? Instead I just screw my eyes closed then wrap my legs around your back, grabbing your shoulders to tug you downwards as I rock my hips against yours. You take hold of my hands in return, one on each side of my head, then knot our fingers together as you press soft kisses against my cheeks and eyelids. When you finally push forward I make a helpless ‘<em>Oh</em>’ noise then call out your name, the movement so smooth and easy that by the time your full length is buried inside me I’m already so close to coming it’s faintly humiliating. It often happens like that when I’m really overwhelmed: just the sense of being penetrated tips me totally over the edge.</p><p>“Oh yes,” I hear myself gasping. “<em>Yes.</em>”</p><p>It’s been over a year now…how is it that every time we’re together still has the same intensity as the first? In a way it’s almost unbearably intimate: pushing tightly against each other’s bodies and inhaling each other’s air, every motion blended with soothing touches, silent pledges, and unspoken promises to one another which this time – finally – are going to be kept. My whole body feels like it’s quivering as I roll my hips and arch my spine, lost in the thrill of how perfectly connected we are as you take a deep breath yourself then slow down the pace, your fingers gently skimming across my face and my hair. You seem much calmer now: it’s like the previous urgency has worn away and whatever point you needed to prove to yourself has been made. Instead you adjust your position to make sure I’m not bearing your full weight and then simply gaze down at me, still and unblinking, as I gaze straight back. No other partner ever got past my defences like this and I’m always relieved that you’re the only to ever see me this way: so needy, frantic, and out-of-control. I don’t think I could have survived the humiliation with anyone else except you.</p><p>“Hannibal,” I say quietly.</p><p>“Yes my love?”</p><p>“It feels so good.”</p><p>In the moonlight I can see your face over mine, your sharp features briefly softened with affection. “I know,” you say, equally quietly. “For me also.”</p><p>It’s always so powerful like this: gazing into your eyes while trying and failing to separate the cacophony in my head from the swell of desire in every part of my body – every cell, every fibre, every drop of heated blood. <em>It’s like being wrapped in a cloud</em>, I think hazily. <em>The kind that’s heavy with heat and electricity before lightning sparks from the edges and sets the sky on fire</em>. My skin’s so slick with sweat that your hands are gliding over it and the sensation feels so slow and sensuous that’s it’s enough to make my muscles give another sharp spasm round your cock. My own is growing slicker and heavier against my stomach, the pressure more than enough to begin tipping me over the edge. Oh God, it’s going to happen any second now, it definitely is…I can’t possibly last much longer.</p><p>“You’re getting so tight,” you say. “I can feel it. You’re close now, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Yes.” My voice is perilously close to breaking; the emotion genuine this time and no longer an act. “I'm going to…oh God, Hannibal. I’m going to come.”</p><p>You lean down to kiss my forehead, murmuring snatches of something in a foreign language. “Keep your eyes open,” you finally say in English. “Don’t close them. I want to watch your expression when it happens.”</p><p>A few seconds later your teeth are digging into the fragile skin of my neck and, oh fuck, I’m actually being bitten. This is deliberate, of course. It’s another way to signify possession – you want people to see the mark and know it was you who put it there. I give a soft moan to show I want this too then cry out again as you take hold of my waist, pulling your cock out nearly all the way then rolling your hips in small hitches to build up the pressure before plunging the entire length deep back inside. You’re rocking me towards you to ensure I feel the full force of each thrust, my hips snapping up as you slam down until we’ve hit a perfect rhythm and I’m taking every single inch you’re giving me. Then you glide your palm across my abdomen, pressing down to feel the vibrations from where I’m getting fucked so hard, before licking a hot stripe across my throat as you finally grip your fist round my cock. My breath promptly stutters in a desperate keening noise. We’re both just seconds away now, my ass clenching helplessly tight around your cock like my body’s determined to pump every last drop of your come as deep inside me as possible.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” I say faintly. “Oh fuck. <em>Fuck</em>. That’s…oh God, I’m close. I’m so close.”</p><p>I don’t know why I keep telling you – it’s not like it isn’t obvious. But I keep saying it anyway as you press another kiss against my forehead then reach round with your free hand to begin massaging the tender ring of skin that’s stretched so tightly around your cock. I moan again, my hips making helpless little jerks of pleasure beneath your fingers as I tense, shudder, then finally call out your name as my cock gives a last violent spasm and spatters my chest and stomach with a thick streak of come. You gather me in your arms to hold me through it, twisting round to trace the outline of my lips with your tongue before thrusting it deep inside my mouth. The kiss is fierce and passionate: pulling away only to breathe and then smashing together again, your breath so hot against my face as you start to come yourself.</p><p>Afterwards you tenderly lick my stomach clean then contentedly settle over me while I just lie there in blissful, boneless oblivion. You’ll want to stay like this for a while now, I know you will – just another way to reassure yourself with a sense of ownership through my whole body being completely covered by yours.  </p><p>“Don’t move,” you say suddenly, as if you’ve read my thoughts. “I want you like this a little longer. Please.”</p><p>The ‘please’ really gives you away. It’s so rare for you to ask for things and I can tell from your tone that it’s less a question of <em>want</em> so much as something you <em>need</em>. I wonder if you even realise? Moments like this are one of the few times you’ll allow yourself to be vulnerable, but they’ve happened often enough by now for me to know the best way to handle you. So rather than speak I gently stroke your hair while pressing kisses against every bit of you I can reach, each touch a wordless reassurance that I understand how you feel and won’t judge you for it. The gestures of love and comfort feel familiar, yet even as I’m making then I know deep down that it’s different tonight: not from what I’m doing, but instead from what I’m avoiding. After all, I know what you <em>really</em> want is for me to tell you that I’ve changed my mind – that I feel ready now – that I’ve decided, yes, I want to get married. There’s no doubt you’re thinking the same, but despite knowing how happy it’d make you I still can’t find the right kind of courage to say it. And so because I’m exhausted and overwhelmed I do something much easier instead – which is to just lie in silence as I look into your face and love you.</p><p>*****</p><p>Shortly afterwards we relocate to the bedroom and once I’ve lit some candles and you’ve put some music on I can feel the emotional tempo winding down to something more closely resembling normal. As expected you were a bit subdued to begin with but it’s passed off by now and you’re fully back to normal (Maximum Smugness levels fully intact).</p><p>“That was amazing,” I say finally. Partly because it <em>was</em>, but mostly because your massive ego will expect to have it officially confirmed. No, not just expect – require. In this respect your ego definitely needs more than its fair share of upkeep and maintenance…it’s actually a bit like having a pet in the house. “Yeah, it was good,” I continue to your ego (because it now feels like I’m addressing it directly in addition to you). I stretch a bit then quiver slightly at the lingering tension in my hips and abdomen. “<em>Really</em> good. God.”</p><p>“No,” you reply. “Just me.”</p><p>I lean over to give you a swipe. Your only response is another smirk so I flop back onto the bed and close my eyes before the urge to punch it off your face becomes overwhelming. In fact compared to earlier our moods have pretty much reversed, with you lounging about contentedly like a large jungle cat while I’ve been overcome with a restless energy that doesn’t know what to do with itself. An added discomfort is that I’ve just realised how hungry I am, although it’s a serious struggle to convince myself that the enjoyment of a sandwich is worth the effort of leaving the bed to make it.</p><p>“Yours are always better than mine,” I say hopefully once I’ve explained this dilemma. “You could always fix me one?”</p><p>“It’s an extraordinarily tempting offer,” you reply. “But no.”</p><p>“Please?”</p><p>You turn round and give me a long, slow smile. “No,” you say.</p><p>I huff for a bit but ultimately don’t pursue as even I can see that it’s much too petty to argue over. Anyway, it’s not like there’s any point: my ability to generate complaints is matched only by your ability to completely ignore them. “Well can we at least change the music?” I say instead. “It’s so maudlin. And I can’t understand a single word she’s saying.”</p><p>“You are having the privilege of hearing Mirella Freni,” you reply without opening your eyes. “I’m afraid a contest between her voice and your understanding is condemned to failure.”</p><p>“That’s great. Thanks.”</p><p>You smile then lean over to ruffle my hair; I know you’re doing it purpose to annoy me but I still can’t help smiling back. “She is singing about her fear of growing old,” you add. “And that her lover will decide she is no longer beautiful.”</p><p>For a few seconds I fall silent, thoughtfully chewing my thumb nail as I mull this over. “That’s actually kind of sad.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“Y’know I’ve never really thought about getting old. Somehow I just always assumed I’d die young.”</p><p>“Thank you Will,” you say idly. “That is a wonderfully positive observation. You are the proverbial ray of sunshine.”</p><p>“Well I did.” I fall quiet again, struck by the sudden awareness that I no longer feel that way. “I wonder what <em>we’ll</em> be like when we’re old?” I add, half to myself.</p><p>“Together,” you reply without any hesitation – which immediately makes me smile again, because I was expecting something more pragmatic about grey hair or arthritis, and because it’s not like you to be sentimental so it’s always rather irresistible when it happens.</p><p>“I guess you’re already pretty old,” I reply, to hide how touched I feel.</p><p>“Yes, no doubt I am very decrepit,” you say. By now your smirk has grown so broad I half expect it to stay lingering in the air after you’ve moved your head, eerie and motionless like the Cheshire Cat.  “You must find it rather embarrassing that I’m still able to outrun you so easily.”</p><p>“Only a <em>bit</em>.” You smirk even harder, but I’m not paying attention anymore because the conversation has reminded me of my reflections in the alleyway and made me sufficiently curious to lean down and press my head against your chest so I can listen to your heart beating. You rest your hand on my head and idly stroke my hair while I’m doing it. “You have a low resting pulse, don’t you?” I say eventually.</p><p>You make a non-committal noise in response. This is a sure sign you don’t really give a shit either way, but I think it’s interesting. It’s also the kind of thing that Jack, if he was here, would almost certainly use as evidence of you being a psychopath (I then lose track for a few seconds, because I’ve been gripped by an image of Jack <em>actually</em> being here and have been overcome with horror at the thought. I suppose I’d have to say I was going all-out in an attempt to catch you…taking one for the team, as it were). Anyway, whatever – the basics are still true. I even did a lecture about it myself once: <em>Low Autonomic Reactivity as a Predictor of Antisocial Behavior</em>. Although describing your behaviour as ‘antisocial’ is admittedly a spectacular understatement (right up there with ‘Nothing at this dinner party is vegetarian’) so maybe it doesn’t matter that much after all. Not that I can ever apply those kinds of labels to you. Conceptually they’re not even fully correct: you’re not a true psychopath because you show signs of remorse and sadness, and you’re not a pure sociopath because you have a clear ability to empathise. To be honest I still don’t really have a word for what you are. You’re just…you.</p><p>Beneath me I can feel you starting to shift around; I think my hair’s tickling you. I press down on your shoulder to make you stay still then settle and re-settle myself until I’m almost entirely laid across your chest. You make a vaguely inconvenienced noise in response.</p><p>“I’m afraid you’re rather too large to fit,” you say, after I’ve shifted round yet again and you’ve narrowly avoided an elbow in the face. “I suppose this is some form of karmic punishment for me for having always called you small.”</p><p>“Yeah, sorry about that.” I move my arm a bit more cautiously then experiment with hooking one leg round yours. “It’s not my fault, though. I can’t get comfortable.”</p><p>“Then lie on the bed,” you reply with a hint of sarcasm.</p><p>“Wouldn’t matter – I’d still be uncomfortable.”</p><p>“I see: and so you will lie on me instead. What a terrible hazard you are <em>ch</em><em>éri</em>, what am I to do with you? You should have been sent to me with a safety warning and a set of instructions.”</p><p>“Yes, well, life’s hard,” I say. “I suggest you get used to it.”</p><p>“Evidently. By the way, might I ask why you would be so uncomfortable on the bed? Enquiring minds wish to know.”</p><p>“Because everything aches from earlier, that’s why. My shoulders, my legs. My back.” I pause for a few seconds, mentally cataloguing my list of woes. “Even my <em>feet</em>.”</p><p>“Not your jaw though, beloved,” you say serenely. “From the amount of complaining you’re able to do, I assume that’s working very well.”</p><p>I give you a small dig in the ribs in exchange for this insult then adjust my face again so I can listen to your pulse. “You know, it’s <em>really</em> low,” I finally add. “Around 60 BPM.”</p><p>Your only response is another variation of the bored sound, although I know if I’d said it about myself then you’d pay attention. You seem to find whatever I do weirdly fascinating, even when it’s objectively boring or pointless. I decide to experiment now: “Mine’s about 90,” I say.</p><p>As expected you open your eyes and shift slightly upright. “That seems rather on the high side. Let me feel your pulse.”</p><p>Despite having insisted on listening to yours I don’t feel like returning the favour so twist out the way until you eventually give up and lie back down again. “I suppose the fault is most likely mine,” you say smugly. “No wonder your heart is racing. I’ve probably over-exerted you.”</p><p>I turn round and give you a withering look. “You wish.”</p><p>“What a fragile boy you are,” you continue with exaggerated concern. “I’m filled with guilt for being so vigorous. Perhaps you require some kind of sedative?”</p><p>“Hardly.”</p><p>“Smelling salts?”</p><p>I decide not to dignify this with a response (because the last thing you need is encouragement) so content myself with a disdainful snorting noise before folding my arms behind my head. In fact I’m expecting you to push it a bit further (‘<em>Palpitations</em>, Will?’) but you don’t say anything else and when I glance round a few moments later it’s to see that you’ve fallen asleep. You’re rather cat-like in that way – wide awake one moment, then stretched out languorously the next with your eyes closed and a beatific expression on your face. It’s a skill I’m pretty envious of but could never do myself if my life depended on it (seeming, in contrast, to always struggle my way out of consciousness with the same ease as someone struggling out a straitjacket). Considering all the stress you’ve caused, it’s also deeply ironic that I tend to sleep better when you’re there and run into even more barriers than usual on the rare occasions you’re not.</p><p>As I watch you make a faint sighing sound and flex your neck, so I spend a few more seconds admiring how peaceful you look before deciding to use it as a chance to entertain myself with fussing over you – smoothing your hair off your forehead; neatly tucking the blanket round your shoulders – not only because it’s amusing, but also because it’s the type of thing that’s almost impossible to do while you’re awake. Then I arrange your watch on the nightstand (because I know you hate sleeping in it) and give your hair a final stroke (because stroking your hair like you’re a child is always rather hilarious) before realising I’ve run out of things to do to you and decide to leave you alone and roll onto my back instead. Then I try to pretend I didn’t just spend the last five minutes tucking you in (despite the fact that’s exactly what I was doing) while wondering if I can be bothered to get up. It’s extremely tempting to just stay where I am, but I’m pretty hungry and still too restless to sleep. After debating it a bit longer it’s apparent that hunger is going to win out over laziness, so I lean over to give you a light kiss then murmur “Sleep well” into your hair before getting out of bed and fumbling around in the darkness for some clothes. Then I tiptoe down the corridor to the kitchen, stealthy as a burglar in an attempt not to make any noise. Of course it’s completely possible that this caution is pointless and you’ve actually been awake the entire time, secretly gloating over the fussing with a massive internal smirk on your face. Actually, knowing you, this is <em>exactly</em> what you’ve been doing. No doubt you’ll mention it tomorrow – although to be honest it’s equally likely that you’ve been onto me for ages and just pretend to be asleep to get me to do it at all.</p><p>Once in the kitchen I retrieve some bread then dump a few slices of ham and cheese on top of it before rummaging around for some vinaigrette. A theatre programme falls out the cupboard as I open it and I can’t help smiling when I look down and realise it’s the one I bought when we watched <em>La Bohème</em>. You never throw away anything I’ve given you, which means all sorts of random crap turns up at unexpected intervals: a greeting card in the kitchen drawer, a matchbook in the nightstand or, as in this case, an over-priced brochure (seriously, that thing was like $20) in the condiments cupboard. I had to stay in a hotel the week before we left America and when I gave you the sachet of shower gel as a joke you even kept that. I smile again at the thought of it then replace the programme before finally locating the vinaigrette from where it’s lurking behind a bottle of olive oil. To be honest I don’t even care that much about adding it, but after living with you for so long I feel vaguely uncomfortable – borderline <em>immoral</em> – in preparing something that doesn’t have at least some pretensions beyond being a mere a sandwich. Of course if you’d made it yourself you’d have built a magnificent edifice on my meagre cheesy foundations (soppressta, muenster, tomatoes, lettuce, prosciutto, pepperoncinis…) but there’s no possible way I’m going to that much trouble. For a few seconds I regard the sandwich rather critically – and have a surreal sense of it staring reproachfully back at me for being the one responsible for how shit it is – then am just about to take a bite before the sound of knocking in the hallway causes to me to jump so sharply I nearly drop the entire thing.</p><p>Considering how we’ve spent the evening my logical response should be fear that it’s the police, and yet I don’t feel that. In fact my first thought is far more mundane: namely that I don’t want the noise to disturb you. Given the choice I’d prefer to ignore it completely, but whoever it is must have seen the light and won’t be going anywhere on their own, so after a few more seconds of hovering I reluctantly put the plate down and go towards the hallway. My best guess is that it’s one of the neighbours needing help with some domestic crisis, but of all the scenarios which spin through my head the absolute last one I consider is the one I end up confronted with as I open the door and find none other than Matteo Whatshisfuckingname standing on the other side.</p><p>“<em>Buona serata</em>,” he says when he sees me. The expression on my face must make my feelings pretty clear because he coughs awkwardly then adds: “I apologise: sincerely I do. I know it is very late to call. I suppose I disturb you?”</p><p>He pauses hopefully, appearing to wait for reassurance – which I stubbornly refuse to give – that this is not the case. In fact now the surprise has worn off I’m aware of starting to feel sorry for myself, because there’s something uniquely awful about being forced to talk to someone you dislike while only wearing shorts, an ancient festering t-shirt and are sporting (I check my reflection in the glass panel to confirm this) mad sex hair. I end up folding myself behind the door so that all he can really see is half my face and a slice of shoulder. Then I have a brief flashback of once having to pull a similar manoeuvre with you; the difference being that even rocking up at a motel clutching Tupperware filled with god-knows-what-crap you still managed to have far more charisma than this asshole could manage if his life depended on it. Then I start thinking how lucky he is that I opened the door rather than you (in which case his life probably <em>would</em> have depended on it) while trying to work out what he wants. The obvious answer would be a business issue, but it doesn’t make sense why he wouldn’t just call or email. Then I see the oily way he’s smiling and feel a sharp twinge of disgust. Oh Christ…surely he’s not going to make a <em>pass</em> at me?</p><p>“And your friend?” persists Matteo. “He is here?”</p><p>He glances over my shoulder as he’s speaking and I take advantage of the opportunity for a sneaky attempt to flatten my hair. “He’s here,” I snap, but he doesn’t reply; it’s like he’s waiting for me to produce you in person. “Look what do you want?” I add sharply. “It’s late.”</p><p>By now I’ve managed to forget he’s my landlord and dropped even the pretence of politeness, but I’m so desperate to get rid of him that I can’t really help it.  Then he starts waving his hands about, affecting an apology, and I gesture angrily to keep his voice down. Oh God, he’s going to wake you up, I know he is. Any second now. Three, two one…</p><p>Sure enough there’s a soft pad of footsteps and I give Matteo the sort of expression that can be universally translated as ‘<em>Well you’ve really done it now haven’t you, you stupid shit</em>?’ as you materialise in the hallway a few seconds later. You’re wearing a robe I bought you of such a dark blue silk it’s practically black and makes you seem as if you’re stepping straight out of the shadows. You always look good in that robe. I remember spotting it and thinking it was a suitable bit of clothing for you to swish around the apartment in, but while it’s probably the kind of thing you’d have sneered at in the past as low-quality (despite costing what would have been the equivalent of a week’s worth of salary) the fact it was me who chose it means you wear it all the time. Of course if I was as sadistic as you are I’d buy you one of the grossest plaid I could find just to watch you have to pretend to like it. I automatically find myself smiling at the sight of you then force my features into something more severe before turning round to face Matteo again.</p><p>“Ah, <em>signore!</em>” calls Matteo across my shoulder.</p><p>It occurs to me that this is the first time the three of us have ever been together in person, although it seems the reactions are going to be pretty predictable in that he takes a step backwards and begins acting more formal, whereas you prowl up to the doorway then proceed to loom around behind me looking imposing while I stand in the middle and wonder if I’m going to have to be the referee. I can tell you’re thinking how inappropriate he’s being to rock up this late without an invitation. Likewise I can <em>also</em> tell I was wrong to assume you’d got your possessive urge out your system earlier, because from the way you’ve started to bristle it’s obvious that you want to insert yourself between me and him as a sort of human shield. Fortunately you’re resisting temptation – probably because you know from experience that the one thing guaranteed to piss me off is when you start being over-protective with me in front of other people.</p><p>“It’s late,” you reply crisply. “What is the matter?”</p><p>“Hey, it’s fine,” I tell you before Matteo has a chance to respond. “Go back to bed.” Of course I don’t know that it’s fine at all, but the old anxiety has reared its head and made me feel that I need to get you out the way before he can say or do something that could end up pissing you off and cause serious trouble. You make no attempt to move and I turn round and give you a discreet scowl to show that I mean it. “I’ll see you in a minute,” I say.</p><p>At some point you’ve put your hand on my shoulder, although as a compromise have chosen the one behind the door so that Matteo can’t see. I have to resist the urge to give you a sly kick to make you go but fortunately you relent and finally make a move towards the bedroom – but not before retrieving my coat from its hook and draping it across my shoulders. It’s like you’re an outraged father from the 1800s preserving my modesty (either that or it’s revenge for the tucking-in earlier). I decide not to make a deal out of it though; not least because if it was you stood half-naked in front of a relative stranger I’d hardly be overwhelmed with joy about it either.</p><p>Matteo has now started shifting restlessly from one foot to another and it strikes me how you’ve managed to freak him out, despite not doing anything beyond appearing out the darkness brandishing my shitty old jacket before going back to bed again. “<em>Dormi bene signore</em>,” he calls out then turns back to face me again and spreads out his hands. “I apologise,” he adds in a lower voice. “I should not have startled you.”</p><p>“No, you shouldn’t,” I snap; and which is admittedly as petty as fuck, but I’m genuinely annoyed by now and can’t stop myself.</p><p>Matteo dips his head in acknowledgment then gestures to where the gate is swinging sadly in the wind. The sound of it sets my teeth on edge: a mournful wail of metal that I’ve been meaning to fix for ages but somehow never gotten round to. “I would not normally disturb a tenant,” adds Matteo. “Only I was passing the property and became alarmed. I thought I saw someone hiding in the courtyard.”</p><p>As explanations go this seems highly unlikely and I narrow my eyes without replying. It’s a useful trick that I learnt from you: stay silent long enough and the other person is bound to feel uncomfortable enough to mindlessly prattle themselves into further disclosure. Sure enough Matteo takes the bait and blurts out: “No doubt I over-react. But these are dangerous times are they not? <em>Il Macellaio</em> has still not been caught. And there was another death this evening.”</p><p>I immediately feel myself tense. We only got home a few hours ago – how could he possibly have found out that fast? “That’s terrible,” I say, attempting to work a faint tremor into my voice. “I had no idea.”</p><p>“Yes, it is very terrible,” agrees Matteo. “I have a friend in the <em>Polizia</em>; I was dining at <em>L’Albero di Fico</em> this evening and saw him as I was leaving. He thinks it is the same killer’s work.”</p><p>On one hand this is good news – namely that the police are thinking exactly what we intended them to – but the mention of where he spent the evening has unsettled me all over again because it means we came frighteningly close to getting spotted. “Well, everything’s fine here,” I finally force myself to say. “No disturbances at all.”</p><p>He doesn’t reply, and in that moment it’s impossible to tell whether the story about the intruder is genuine or whether he invented it as an excuse to check up on us generally or (even worse) me specifically. But it’s not like he’s going to admit it either way, and by now my patience for the conversation has pretty much expired. Instead I reach up to close the door in an attempt to banish him, but before I can manage it he makes a lunge towards me and puts his hand against the frame. It’s a distinctly aggressive gesture and is so unexpected that I end up flinching slightly, surprised in spite of myself.</p><p>“Your friend…” adds Matteo, and there’s a weird emphasis in the way he says it.</p><p>“What about him?” I snap. I have a fleeting image of slamming the door on his hand, but there’s no doubt the force would break his fingers and an assault charge is the last thing I need right now. To avoid temptation I let go of the handle and adjust my tone to something less confrontational. “Look, it’s very late,” I say through gritted teeth. “I’d appreciate it if can you get to the point.”</p><p>“It’s just with all this local violence…” There’s a pause as he swallows, his Adam’s apple crawling down his throat like a large flesh-coloured beetle. “Although perhaps you don’t need to worry when <em>he</em> is around?”</p><p>Having delivered this speech he now darts his tongue across his lips with a weird lizard-like motion as one-by-one I feel every hair on the back of my neck stand on end. <em>No, it’s fine</em>, I tell myself urgently. <em>Of course he doesn’t know – how could he? He’d have said something by now. He’d have done something. He has no idea who you are</em>. There’s another pause and then I force myself to look at him directly; a perfect facsimile of a dumb tourist who has no idea what to do for the best.</p><p>“I think anyone would be worried,” I finally reply, and I’m proud of how natural my voice manages to sound.</p><p>For a few seconds Matteo stares back at me. His eyes are very dark and shiny and once again I’m reminded of beetle shells that scuttle and crawl. “Well the main thing is that you are both well,” he replies. As he says it his lips peel from his mouth in an odd way and I catch a brief glimpse of teeth gleaming wetly in the dark; it gives me a squirming memory of Francis Dolarhyde, even though the situation isn’t remotely the same and it’s pointless to compare them. So instead I just continue staring at the spectacle of teeth and eyes as Matteo lowers his voice even further and adds: “I like to take care of my tenants…I keep a close eye on them. <em>Capisci?</em> A very close eye.”</p><p>This time I don’t even attempt to answer. How can I? I don’t know what to say. <em>He-hasn’t recognised-you-he-doesn’t-know</em> has started to run through my head in a desperate sort of chant; it’s like I feel I can force it into reality by sheer force of will. In fact the urge is so consuming that it takes me a few seconds to realise that he’s turning to go: melting into the shadows to leave me alone with nothing but the fading sound of his footsteps and a sickening sense of doubt that finally – <em>finally</em> – our legendary run of luck might just be about to run out.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lol I promise all my author notes won’t just be endless gushing over you all, but I did want to thank everyone again for giving me such a warm welcome back to the fandom. In the past there’s usually been around a 6-month gap between a story ending and a new one getting posted, but this time I left it over a year and a half because I was fully expecting another barrage of trolling and negativity and wasn’t in the mood to deal with it. The support and encouragement you’ve all shown in the last few weeks has made me wish I hadn’t waited so long to come to come back and I really do appreciate you helping me to feel so at home again xox</p><p>Also, speaking of anniversaries…I was catching up with a friend of mine this morning who reminded me of the time I told him I was writing Hannigram fic and the look of sheer horror on his face because he thought I meant Edward Norton and Anthony Hopkins XD</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Last night’s exchange has rattled me more than I’d like to admit, and despite trying not to I spend all next morning and most of the afternoon brooding about it so intently I wind up with a headache. <em>What did he mean</em>? I think to myself, fretfully gnawing my thumbnail. <em>What was he trying to say?</em> I have endless questions yet each one refuses an easy solution and leaves me cupping the worry in my hands then lugging it round as I mentally replay the entire conversation in my head, pausing and re-winding certain parts then forensically analysing tone and content like it’s a court exhibit or interview tape. Admittedly the daylight has disinfected the murkiest parts and compared to last night’s fear the notion has a hint of outlandishness about it. <em>None of it makes sense</em>, I think. <em>If he knows who you are then why wouldn’t he do anything</em>? Even so I can’t quite shake it – although unfortunately I can’t quite solve it either, because it feels impossible to get enough evidence to settle the mystery one way or the other. <em>Matteo and the Mystery of the Cryptic Comments</em>…it sounds like a crappy Harry Potter rip-off. So ultimately it just lingers around with the same nagging urgency of a rotten tooth until I’ve grown so preoccupied with examining it (then pushing it away, then guiltily allowing it to creep back in again for another inspection) that I eventually admit defeat and decide I’m just going to tell you the whole thing. Of course the obvious choice would have been to tell you straight away, but so far I’ve been holding back. Partly this reluctance stems from how self-conscious I am about over-thinking things and looking neurotic, but if I’m honest it’s mostly because I’m not convinced how reassuring your response is going to be.</p><p>Now that my mind’s made up I realise I feel slightly calmer, so flatten my hair from where I’ve been running my fingers through it then pick up my worry again and stride off in order to present you with it instead. I check in the bedroom first but you’re not there, so head downstairs where I find you in the living room gazing intensely at a wooden puzzle box. You’ve been doing this a lot lately – I don’t even know where you got it from, but you seem completely obsessed. It’s actually quite amusing to watch you playing with it (a bit like a kid with an action figure) although the effort required to solve it seems so horrific that I truly can’t see the appeal. You don’t glance up at the sound of my footsteps, although I can tell you know I’m there from the way you start to smile.</p><p>“You might wish to make yourself comfortable,” you say. “You are just on time to witness my ultimate defeat.”</p><p>I pull up the chair across from yours then settle into and stare rather critically at the box, which is a sort of gruesomely multi-layered Rubik’s Cube with seemingly infinite combinations and interlocking pieces. I’m not quite sure now whose idea it was to arrange the chairs this way, but it’s been like that for ages now and it’s never occurred to me to move them. Clearly old habits die hard. “Struggling, are you?” I say.</p><p>“I am. It’s frustrating yet intriguing.” You smile a bit more then finally put the box on the table and catch my eye. “Outwitting me is a rare commodity but this contraption appears to have managed it.”</p><p>This makes me smile too because it’s always endearing to see you admit any sort of weakness. When we first met you almost never did, but now you’ll mention things quite often – sometimes I think you invent a couple just because you know I like it. “You shouldn’t have left me on my own with it,” I now say out loud. “I’ve been giving it insider tips on how to outsmart you.”</p><p>As soon as I say this your own smile starts to widen. “Yes, it would seem the two of you have something in common. Perhaps you’d like to have a try at solving it?”</p><p>“Sure,” I say, doing my best not to sound too unenthusiastic. You silently hand it over and I frown at it for a few seconds before putting on my glasses to show I mean business. “I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” I add. “Why don’t you just read a book or something?” Your only response is to start smirking – the clear implication being that <em>normal</em> people might read books, but superior minds torture themselves for hours with elaborate bits of wood. I roll my eyes at you and then return to inspecting the box (which now technically seems to be my spirit animal in the sense we’ve both had the dubious honour of getting the better of you).</p><p>“Look, the hinge is weighted just here,” I finally add. “Have you tried this way?”</p><p>“You mean laterally?” I hand it back over and you twist as suggested until the box gives a neat little click. “Ah, perfect,” you say. “Well done<em>.</em> That’s the third stage complete.”</p><p>You sound genuinely pleased about it, which makes me feel pleased too. Come to think of it this is something I’ve always appreciated about you, because you never get defensive or irritated when I figure out stuff before you can. If anything it’s the opposite. Signs of intelligence are a bit like catnip to you: a source of constant appeal and stimulation. “I’m glad I could put you out your misery,” I tell you. “So how many more stages are there?”</p><p>“Six.”</p><p>“Three more? Ugh, you’re insane.” You smirk even harder and then regard the box rather fondly before preparing to lunge straight back in again to the certain torture of Stage Four. “Look, can you put it down for a while,” I add. “I want to talk to you.”</p><p>You obediently return the box to the table then lean back in your chair and look at me expectantly to show I’ve got your full attention. “What’s the matter?” you ask when I don’t add anything. “Are you feeling unwell?”</p><p>“Why would you think I’m unwell?”</p><p>“Because – pardon me – but you <em>look</em> unwell. You seem very pale and tired.”</p><p>This is too obvious to contradict so I just shrug instead. “Yeah, probably,” I say. “I didn’t get much sleep.” Briefly I pause to critically inspect my reflection in the fireplace: hmm, yes, there’s no denying I look like several shades of shit. “Actually I feel wrecked,” I continue. “I <em>look</em> wrecked.” You don’t respond and I turn round to face you again. “You know this is the point you’re supposed to contradict me, right? It’s the point where you’re supposed to look horrified and exclaim ‘My dear Will, what on earth are you talking about. You look absolutely<em> radiant</em>.’”</p><p>“I could indeed say that, most dearest of Wills,” you reply serenely. “But I would be lying.”</p><p>“So what? You’re always lying.”</p><p>Your lips twitch at this like you’re struggling not to laugh, so I roll my eyes at you again then wander over and drape myself rather aimlessly across the edge of your chair. You reach out immediately and run your finger along my arm. “If it’s any consolation you wear your weariness extremely well,” you add. “You always have. There have been many times over the course of our acquaintance where I’ve thought how attractive you look when you’re tired. Wan, yet glamorous – it’s a talent you have. Most people would just seem threadbare in comparison.”</p><p>“Thanks,” I say dubiously. “I guess.”</p><p>“It’s something about your expression.” You sound thoughtful now, as if the specific features of me looking like shit are something you’ve invested considerable time in (which, let’s face it, you probably have). “It has a certain quality that’s hard to describe,” you add. “How <em>would</em> one describe it I wonder? It’s difficult in English. It’s such an ugly language – none of the nuance or delicacy of the Roman ones. For example you would be <em>triste</em> in French or <em>luttuoso</em> in Italian, whereas English would deem you something inelegant like ‘dismal’ or ‘gloomy’.” You pause then deliver one of your vaguely unsettling smiles. “It’s completely unsuitable of course, because there is such a bleak beauty in your sadness. Which is exactly how it should be. Beauty in distress is always more picturesque than any other kind.”</p><p>“Alright, stop it now,” I say. “You’re being weird.”</p><p>You start to smirk again and then obligingly fall silent and tilt your head up in anticipation of what I’m about to tell you. The attention makes me feel awkward and I can’t help suspecting you’re doing it on purpose. I know I’ll persist with it anyway though, because the habit of confiding in you about my problems has grown so hardwired by now that it’s almost impossible to break. It’s a pattern that begun when I first met you but has grown way more embedded since we started living together, and it tends to start with me acting very aloof and introspective before descending into neediness pretty quickly (and generally concludes with me huddled next to you on the bed or sofa like a large toddler so I can be caressed back into calmness). I never used to be like this – and I know my old self would have been horrified at the thought of it – yet there’s no denying that the longer we’ve been together the more frequent it’s become. It’s not entirely my fault though, because it’s obvious that you take a lot of trouble to encourage it. I’d even say you actively <em>enjoy</em> it. I guess the psychiatrist in you finds it intriguing to draw out my neurotic traits, but there’s also no doubt that you like the sense of me growing dependent on a source of comfort which only you can provide. Admittedly you don’t confide about your own problems in the same way, mostly because you never seem to have any, although you’re always very interested to hear my opinion on things.</p><p>I now let out a few loud sighs and then settle down to relate my conversation with Matteo, taking care to keep the narrative as calm and factual as possible while avoiding the more dramatic flourishes and speculations which are constantly threatening to sneak their way in. You listen patiently without interrupting and when I’ve finished tip your head back then briefly close your eyes.</p><p>“Permit me to summarise,” you say without opening them again. “You suspect our landlord has realised who I am, but for unknown reasons has chosen to remain obscure about it?”</p><p>When parsed into such blunt terms it sounds slightly preposterous but I’ve gone too far now to dismiss the fear so easily. “Maybe,” I say. And then a moment later in a firmer voice: “Yes. I think it’s possible.”</p><p>“So how do you believe he came to this realisation?”</p><p>“What do you mean? The Internet, obviously. It must have made the news over here.”</p><p>“Several years ago.”</p><p>“What difference does that make? It only takes one photo to give it away.”</p><p>“But he hasn’t gone to the police?”</p><p>“Not <em>yet</em> he hasn’t.”</p><p>“The only reason not to would be blackmail,” you say, finally opening your eyes again. “Yet he has made no attempt to extort either of us. Quite the opposite in fact.”</p><p>“No.” I sound a bit grudging; it’s like I’m reluctant to be reasoned out of my own paranoia. “I guess.”</p><p>“It is not a matter of guessing. If he <em>did</em> know there are only two options open to him, but he has shown no sign of opting for either. The inference, therefore, is that he doesn’t know anything and you are tormenting yourself unnecessarily. Remind me again what he told you?”</p><p>“It wasn’t so much what he said. It was the <em>way</em> he said it.” I give another loud sigh, fully aware of how insubstantial it sounds. “He was…not threatening exactly, but…” I pause, irritably snapping my fingers as I try to think of the right word. “<em>Insinuating</em>. Like he knew more than he was letting on.”</p><p>“Yes, and I agree his remarks were odd. But it seems implausible that he could realise who I am and <em>not</em> contact the police.”</p><p>“I know,” I say wearily. “It doesn’t make any sense.”</p><p>“Oh, there will be some sense there,” you reply with aggravating calmness. “It is merely a matter of finding it. Currently we have insufficient data from which to reason. For example, it may be a case of mistaken identity and he is confusing me with someone else. It may be that he is emotionally unstable and prone to fantasy. Or it may be that there is another, entirely unknown variable of which we are both unaware but which will reveal itself in due course.”</p><p>“Look I don’t mean to be <em>rude</em>,” I say – you promptly start smiling and I do my best to ignore you – “but excuse me if I don’t find your attitude very reassuring.”</p><p>“How so?”</p><p>“Because you don’t feel fear the way regular people do. Which means your risk assessment is…let’s just say it’s ‘sub-par’.” I can feel myself starting to frown: it’s possibly only a matter of time before I start wagging my finger at you. “In case you’ve forgotten, you’re the one who got caught on purpose.”</p><p>“True,” you say airily. “However the situation is not the same. Now I have different responsibilities.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>You give me a slightly incredulous look, like you can’t possibly believe I could be so dense. “<em>You</em>, Will – obviously. Now I have your wellbeing to consider as well as my own.”</p><p>“Oh come on. What difference does that make? If I’d asked you before you’d have said that was about my wellbeing too.” I pause then give you a slightly malevolent look. “It was certainly about <em>yours</em>.”</p><p>Your only response is to start smiling again (this time in a way which strongly suggests you’re indulging in a bit of private congratulation for how clever you think you are). “Possibly you’re giving me too much credit,” is all you reply. “I’m not sure that safeguarding would be the best way to describe that particular scenario.”</p><p>“Yeah, probably not. How about ‘stalking’?”</p><p>“If you like,” you say with another smile. “Nevertheless my point still stands. I have a certain duty of care towards you now, and it’s one which I take extremely seriously.” There’s a steely edge to your voice as you say this, but while the possessiveness makes me uncomfortable it seems ungracious to call you out on it. As if reading my thoughts you glance up at me then add in a softer tone: “If I thought there was a genuine threat I would say so.”</p><p>“Look, I know it doesn’t seem like much,” I reply. “But if you’d been there yourself…If you’d <em>heard</em> him.” I fade off into silence then give a fretful shrug. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it.”</p><p>“Do you?” For a few seconds you close your eyes again then abruptly snap them open and give a grim little smile. “Do you want me to speak with him?”</p><p>Internally I feel myself wince. Of course it was easy to guess you’d suggest something like this, but the idea has so many potential dangers that it’s one of the reasons I delayed telling you in the first place. “No,” I say quickly. “Absolutely not. Remember what we agreed?”</p><p>“I remember.” Now you sound amused again; it’s incredibly irritating. “<em>No personal acquaintances should be targeted:</em> just one of several of your very diligent rules.” You catch my eye then give me a long, slow smile. “For the sake of efficiency you should perhaps just have them printed and framed?”</p><p>“I don’t know why you’re being so flippant about it,” I snap. “Who’s the forensics expert, me or you? Both our prints are already all over his office.” I pause then give a small shudder at the image of the technician’s face when they ran them through the database and a match flashed up for you. The goddamn computer would probably explode. “It would be <em>far</em> too easy to trace back to us.”</p><p>“Then what do you propose?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” I say, and it’s depressing to hear it admitted out loud. “I guess we could always move?”</p><p>“We could indeed do that – if you really wanted to.”</p><p>You announce this like it would be no big deal, but I know you understand as well as I do that moving at short notice is a hell of a lot easier said than done. Operating beneath the radar with fake documents and cash payments would be complex enough when living back home, but in a foreign country it’s several orders of magnitude harder and I can still remember the stress of arriving and not finding anywhere willing to take us in. If I was on my own it’d be simpler because I’d just take the first dumpy apartment I could find, but you have standards you refuse to lower and luxurious rentals with low-rent background checks aren’t all that easy to come by. I’d spent weeks tormenting myself with the idea of migrating form one hotel to another until our money ran out before Matteo had finally come along and been willing to turn a blind eye. Returning to the same uncertainty isn’t especially tempting. And yet, and yet…</p><p>For a few seconds I nibble at my lip in silence before finally glancing up at you. “Do you think I’m overreacting?”</p><p>“No,” you say. “I think you’re being cautious, and that the caution is warranted.” Reaching over again you run your finger along the back of my hand. I stare down at it rather gloomily: it appears I’ve now devolved into such an emotional Man Child that I literally need my hand held as a form of reassurance. I can almost imagine my former self looking, cringing with extreme mortification on my behalf. <em>For God’s sake</em>, he’d be saying. <em>Get a grip of yourself, you stupid shit</em>. I now discreetly move my hand away and you add, as if reading my thoughts: “My only concern is that you’re going to grow so blinded by caution that nowhere will ever feel safe.”</p><p>“And so we spend our whole life on the run,” I say bleakly.</p><p>“There are worse ways to spend one’s life.” I shrug again and you wait a few moments then take hold of my hand completely and press it against yours (for God’s sake). Actually, it makes me wonder what <em>your</em> former self is saying: perhaps he’s consumed with mortification as well, unable to fathom why you’re no longer behaving like a huge bastard every chance you can get? “I think you’ve answered your own question,” you add in a gentler voice. “If you <em>truly</em> believed Matteo was a threat you would have chosen to act: either by my solution, which is to remove him from the equation; or by your own, which is to remove <em>us</em>. The fact you can’t commit to a course suggests the underlying emotion is what’s troubling you the most. Matteo is merely a convenient peg on which to hang it.”</p><p>“So what’s my emotion?” I ask, even though I already know.</p><p>“Fear,” you reply without any hesitation. You pause a few seconds then turn to look at me directly, slow-blinking like a cat. “But not just of getting caught – I think fear of something as simple as that would almost be a relief to you. No, the thing that frightens you the most is the thing that’s <em>always </em>frightened you. It’s the conflict between the person you wish to be and the person you actually are, and every single second you spend here with me is a reminder of that.” I stiffen slightly and you wait a few moments to observe the effect of what you’re saying, slowly running your eyes across my face the entire time before continuing. “Yes, it’s a constant tightrope walk,” you finally add in the same soft voice. “Isn’t it Will? Inch by inch, so careful and cautious; and yet you only <em>barely</em> make it onto the side of morality and righteousness. Perhaps one day you’ll simply have to invent a side of your own?”</p><p>While you haven’t come out and said so (at least not yet) this is all so loaded it might as well be a slap to the face, and I immediately know that what you’re <em>really</em> referring to is my inability to commit to the sort of future you want us to have. Not that this is necessarily surprising – it’s always been the main dilemma where you’re concerned. Can’t live with you, can’t live without you. Silently I now stare at the floor, mentally turning it over, yet no matter how ingeniously I try to spin your words the reality is undeniable and I know what you’re saying is true. It’s always been that way. From the big to the small: from never walking away from you every time I knew I should, to the day I finally sent a Great Red Dragon to do the job for me because when the moment came I knew there was no guarantee I’d be able to kill you myself. And then there was a murder so brutal and beautiful it confirmed I could never to go back to a normal life – and so over the cliff we go. Except that freeing myself from <em>you</em> or you freeing myself from <em>me…</em>it was always the same thing, wasn’t it? I suppose it should really have ended there and maybe it would’ve been simpler if it had. But of course it didn’t, and here I am.</p><p>Possibly it would help if I tried to tell you some of this but I feel like the effort would be pointless; not least because you’re already aware of it anyway. So in the end all I say is: “Yes. I’m sorry.”</p><p>You pause then smile again, this time a little more eerie and reflective than before. “You know Jack Crawford once said something very telling about you. He said ‘<em>Will Graham is genuine. He is always going to come back to being Will Graham</em>.’ He had no idea how right he was, did he?”</p><p>Once again you’re not even trying to be subtle and it’s obvious that this is a coded reference to the idea of my Becoming – that fated day where I’ll emerge from my mental chrysalis and complete the transformation to the (true) version of myself which I was never free enough to be in the past. It remains a fixation of yours, even after all this time, and I often can’t help feeling that no matter how much I alter in outlook and temperament the difference will still never be enough for you.</p><p>Instead I just shrug again then give a rather lop-sided smile. “Wind them up and watch them go,” is all I say.</p><p>This makes you smile too, because by now this statement has turned into something of a private joke and referencing it is always guaranteed to get a reaction from one or both of us. According to you it was my first moment of genuine self-acceptance; a realisation of <em>exactly</em> who I was and what I was capable of. Likewise I always insist that wasn’t what I meant at all <em>(after all I was there as well – and anyway I could have shot you if I’d wanted to, you big arrogant bastard)</em>, but you refuse to agree and as usual your version of reality seems to have turned into the mutually accepted one.</p><p>“Will Graham,” you say now. “The reluctant aggressor.”</p><p>“No,” I reply. “Not really.”</p><p>“Yes – really. Your problem isn’t that you’re becoming a predator: it’s that you’re a predator who can’t admit his predatory instinct. How many times have I told you so?”</p><p>“Is that a rhetorical question?” I say with obvious sarcasm. “Because you have made that point. A. Lot. I’d even go so far as to say you’ve <em>laboured</em> it.” Not that this is even close to capturing what you’ve done. By now it’s more like you’ve flogged the point to death, then brought it back to life just to kill it all over again. It is now a <em>zombie</em> point.</p><p>You catch my eye then start to smile again, clearly aware exactly what I’m thinking. “Yes, but then that’s the difficulty of free choice. You can’t deny your nature; it’s a gift of birth and temperament. All you can do is choose whether or not to embrace it. To take a life or save one, Will: <em>that’s</em> the choice you make. You knew that every time you went to work on one of your crime scenes.”</p><p>“They weren’t <em>my</em> crime scenes,” I say sharply.</p><p>“I know,” you reply in the same calm voice. “They merely felt as if they were – and it destroyed you a little more every single time.” For a few seconds you close your eyes again, almost as if you’re savouring the memory of it. “You sacrificed yourself in the service of righteousness didn’t you? Yet all the time you fought the good fight with such very <em>bad</em> instruments.”</p><p>“Oh God, don’t start with all that again,” I snap. “I’m not in the mood.”</p><p>“I don’t suppose you are,” you reply, briefly looking even more Sphinxy and inscrutable than usual. “That doesn’t change the fact that what I’m saying is true. You saw your mindset as distorted; I think you still see it that way. Dysfunctional – monstrous even – and defensible only in terms of its effectiveness.” I make an irritated sound and you lean a little further back in your chair, never once taking your eyes from my face. “You were forced to inhabit the minds of so many monsters,” you add, almost tenderly. “It came close to breaking you. Of course the reality is that you’re only truly whole <em>because</em> of the way you’re broken. It’s very fortunate for you that I was there to help assemble the pieces.”</p><p>This is too much and I can’t help laughing – partly because I have a sincerely amused affection for how annoying and pompous you are, but also because the subject is making me uncomfortable and humour seems like the safest way to dispel it. I now walk up behind you again so I can prop my chin against the top of your hair. “Yes, you like breaking things don’t you?” I say sardonically. “You like remaking them in your own image.”</p><p>You tip your head back a bit so you look at me, your eyes very dark and glittering as they catch the light. “And did I succeed?” you say.</p><p>Instead of replying I just nudge your hair a few times with my face then wrap my arms round you so I can press my cheek against yours. This is essentially the coward’s way out, but I can’t help it because it’s not a conversation I feel able to have. After all, we both know the answer is no. If it was as simple as you’d like it to be I wouldn’t find the idea of being married to you so overwhelming.</p><p>“So what do you think?” I eventually say instead.</p><p>“About what?”</p><p>“What I just told you. About Matteo.”</p><p>This is such an abrupt pivot that I know you must be irritated, although as usual you do a perfect job of disguising it. Not that you’ve any grounds to complain – your own pivots are so sharp they defy the laws of gravity. “I think the impression is strong yet undetermined,” you reply. “Logic suggests that he’s unaware of who I am, but your perception speaks to the contrary. And I trust your perception.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s me – so what about you? What does your instinct say?”</p><p>“That his remark was a strange one, and while not a cause for immediate alarm remains a situation that deserves to be monitored. And yes: if it makes you more comfortable we can begin preparations to move.”</p><p>I take a deep breath then let it out again in a rush. “Yes. Okay then.”</p><p>“And I want you to tell me immediately if he attempts any further contact,” you add firmly. “I’m not at <em>all</em> happy with the way he interacts with you.”</p><p>Oh God, so you did notice that. Considering how quickly you left I was hoping you hadn’t spotted it, although realistically I guess that was always too much to hope for. You’re almost supernaturally perceptive when it suits you. “Look it’s fine,” I reply, doing my best to sound casual. “Just for once can you not over-complicate things?”</p><p>“On the contrary. It’s clear he wishes to engage your attention: I should not be at all surprised if he is using your relationship with me as a clumsy way to acquire it.  Who knows, perhaps that may be the unknown variable? After all, in some contexts his comment could be interpreted as a bitter reflection on his romantic competitor. He resents me because I have a position of closeness to you that he wishes to occupy.”</p><p>“That’s not the point,” I say impatiently. “The issue is whether he’s <em>recognised you</em>. Not some dumb attempt at flirting.”</p><p>“W-i-l-l,” you reply in a warning voice. “Please stop dissembling. I said that I want you to tell me.”</p><p>“And <em>I</em> said it’s fine,” I snap. “Don’t speak to me like that. I’m not a child.”</p><p>You don’t reply immediately, instead just raising your hand to curl it round the back of my neck in a way that’s gentle but firm. If you were cat-like before you’ve now become more like a dog, or even a wolf: bristling and territorial. The problem is that I can’t tell how much of it is genuine and how much is performative, not least because I think you’re desperate for a chance to stir things up and going after Matteo would be an ideal opportunity. You won’t care about the risks – you never have. In fact it reminds me of your disappointment in the alleyway when the police moved past us, because it’s clear that you’re waiting for a confrontation that will force me to pick a side (namely yours). You’re probably secretly hoping that Jack <em>does</em> turn up. After all, you might <em>say</em> you’d be willing to move, but when the time comes I know it’s equally possible that you’ll insist on staying put if it means there’s even the slightest chance of manoeuvring me into a situation that would force me to break my existing codes. For all I know you tipped out Matteo yourself; it’s not like you’re not capable of it. Anything for the game.</p><p>This whole issue clarifies why I was reluctant to confide to you in the first place and I now give a loud sigh, desperately hoping that things aren’t about to get complicated while suspecting they almost certainly are. I’m not like you in that respect. You thrive on chaos and carnage whereas I want something simpler and calmer. Although I suppose that’s the main difference between us at the moment: I’ve already got what I want, whereas you’re still waiting. And until I’m able to give it to you, even I can’t say for sure what lengths you might go to in an attempt to change my mind and make me see our relationship – and myself – the same way you do.</p><p>“I want you to promise me something,” I suddenly blurt out. “Are you listening?”</p><p>“To you?” you say fondly. “Always.”</p><p>“Then I want you to promise me that if the police <em>do</em> find you then you won’t try to prove a point, or take a stand, or do anything to draw attention to yourself.” I take a deep breath, briefly overwhelmed by the vividness of the image: the flashing lights and loudspeakers, you in handcuffs and the way you’ll catch my eye as they take you away. “Promise me that if anything happens you’ll just <em>run</em>.”</p><p>In the resulting pause I can hear you breathing before your finally turn round and regard me very steadily, the faintest of smiles on your face. “I promise I won’t allow anyone to separate us,” you reply.</p><p>“Seriously? You think I’m just going to buy that? It’s not what I asked you Hannibal. It’s not what I asked <em>at all</em>.”</p><p>“Perhaps it’s not,” you say. “Although the outcome is the same regardless. Why does it matter which route I take to achieve it?”</p><p>You pick up the box again as a clear sign that the conversation is over and I just stand there and watch you: gazing in silence while struggling with the old anger and resentment that I rarely feel towards you now yet remains so well-rehearsed it’s always available at a moment’s notice, ready to pull off the shelf and wrap around myself like a familiar piece of clothing. Because it’s painfully obvious by now what you have in mind, and if the pieces fall the way you want them to it means I’ll end up forced to make a choice I’ve spent the whole time since the cliff-top trying to avoid. You basically said as much earlier and it’s as if I can feel the message churning round in my head as I look at you: <em>Time to choose a side.</em></p><p>*****</p><p>Despite the dread and doubt of it all (considerable), the sense of anticipation (high), and the vague urge to just accept the inevitable and do something stupid (guilty, but still there) things seem to have subsided after the drama with Matteo because the next few days limp by and bring absolutely…nothing. No police on the doorstep. No troubling phone calls. Just an ominous stretching silence in which there’s not much to do except brood over all the worst-case scenarios that never actually happened. Admittedly it’s not like I <em>wanted</em> anything to happen, but in a perverse way all that nothing still feels like a massive anti-climax. It’s the uncertainty of it, I think. It’s the awareness of a disaster which might need preparing for, yet with no idea of when or where it’s going to occur…or even if it’s going to occur at all. The insecurity of it makes me brittle and irritable, nagging at my nerves with a kaleidoscope of emotions which contradict each other in ways that shouldn’t really be possible in the same mind at the same time. The sensation is a genuinely odd one and it’s only through sieving through my responses that I finally begin to understand it: how easily dread can be counterbalanced with anticipation, how a preoccupation with the future can blend with an obsession for the past, and how my own anxiety gets augmented by the almost eerie sense of calmness provided by your presence.</p><p>In theory it seems like these contrary emotional states should neutralise one another like acid and alkali and leave me in a state of blankly comfortable numbness. But that’s not what happens at all, and instead I find myself spinning through several extremes that leave me silent one moment then snapping the next. Naturally it’s you who ends up bearing the brunt of these mood swings, although I don’t feel as guilty about this as I probably should. I mean it’s not like you don’t deserve it…if anything it’s the <em>least</em> of what you deserve. But despite the constant provocations you never make any signs of complaint and instead just absorb my volatility with excessive patience and a very faint smile on your face. At times I even get the sense you’re actively enjoying my spectrum of emotion – like it’s something infinitely artful and fascinating which should be savoured – and even after a full week of it I still can’t quite decide whether I find this faintly endearing or outright creepy.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” I say eventually. “I know I’m being a massive pain in the ass.” I sound a bit grudging. I can’t help it though, because I have an instinctive dislike of apologising to you (mostly because in the apology/forgiveness ratio it feels like you have negative credit for life). In response you simply raise your eyebrows so high they practically become airborne and I can find myself struggling not to smile. “It’s okay,” I add, “you can agree if you want to.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t describe it in quite those terms,” you reply in your usual leisurely way. “But yes, it’s true that you’ve been…” There’s a small pause, presumably while you scroll your mental thesaurus for a suitable replacement for <em>rude little shit</em>. “Very reactive since the visit from Matteo.”</p><p>As usual you’ve carefully excised your own contribution to my sense of anxiety, but I can’t really be bothered to argue about it. Besides, it’s not like you’re ever going to admit to anything. Instead I just quirk an eyebrow and repeat “Reactive?” which causes your smile to grow ever-so-slightly broader. “That sounds suspiciously like a euphemism,” I add, which makes you open your eyes very wide in a display of faux-innocence that’s enough to make me laugh out loud. “Yeah, well, I’m still sorry,” I say. “I’m sorry for being a reactive pain in the ass.”</p><p>“There’s no need,” you reply. “I don’t take it personally. It’s understandable considering the stress you’ve been under.” As you’re speaking you reach out to take hold of my hand then slowly skim your thumb across the knuckles before stroking along the bones of my wrist. The attention you’re lavishing on this task is extremely obvious – like an archaeologist marvelling over an especially rare excavation – and when you see me watching you give another feline smile without actually taking the trouble to let go.</p><p>I now remove my wrist myself (partly because if left to your own devices you’ll go on examining it all night, but also because all the stroking is starting to tickle) and then announce, with a touch of envy: “You don’t really get stressed do you?”</p><p>You briefly catch my eye then give a small, elegant shrug. “I do. I’m just able to conceal it better.”  </p><p>I decide to interpret this as a reproach for the way I’ve been acting and give a self-conscious squirm without fully meaning to. You watch me for a few seconds then promptly take the opportunity to pounce on my wrist again. “Don’t look so forlorn,” you add. “It wasn’t meant as a criticism. In fact if I was being honest I would say that you’re <em>more</em> emotionally resilient than I am, because you have a higher capacity to endure negative feelings.” My scepticism must show on my face because you fall silent again for a few moments, suddenly looking thoughtful. “Loss, for example, is something I have almost no tolerance for at all. To lose someone I love, whether by their own volition or someone else’s, touches something primal in me. In fact I find it <em>insufferable</em> – and it makes me strike out.”</p><p>There’s a small, strained pause. “Yeah,” I finally reply. My sounds flat and emotionless; something that always happens when you refer to things you’ve done to me in the past. “I’d noticed.”</p><p>There’s no way you haven’t detected my change in tone, although it’s clear you’re not going to mention it. In fact you very rarely do, and I’ve long since given up expecting it. “Well there you have it,” you say instead. “You should know better than anyone that I am susceptible to stress.”</p><p>Automatically I find myself reaching down to touch the scar on my abdomen before I realise what I’m doing and have to force myself to stop. You track the movement of my hand with your eyes then swivel back to my face again and stare at me. God knows what you’re actually thinking. “You should do something to relax,” is all you say.</p><p>“Yeah, maybe.” I’m not really listening though; I’m tired of people telling me to relax. Instead I take a sip of coffee then stare at you rather owlishly from the top of the mug. “Maybe at some point.”</p><p>“And what point is that? Today? Next week? Next month? You need a proper meal; that, and some rest. And later on I would like to give you a bath.”</p><p>Unfortunately I’m in the middle of drinking when you say this and the combination of liquid and annoyance prompts a choking fit of proportions that are borderline epic. You stand by and wait politely until I can breathe again. “Jesus, you will not <em>give</em> me a bath,” I eventually manage. “I’m not a dog.”</p><p>You immediately start to smile – relaxed and playful, as if the shadow of the past few moments has finally managed to clear. “You’re right,” you reply. “My choice of verb was a poor one. But it doesn’t change how depressingly functional you are in your approach to self-care. One might even say <em>Spartan</em>. You seem to forget that food and cleanliness are not merely duties to perform but opportunities for pleasure and recreation.” I sigh loudly at the sense of being lectured and you add with a touch of firmness: “So in other words, what I mean to say is that I intend to sit in a bath myself, then put my arms round you and prevent you getting out again until I consider you sufficiently rested.”</p><p>I lower my head like a bull and then, because I’ve lost the coffee mug, opt to glare at you over the top of my glasses instead. “No way are you doing that.”</p><p>“Yes, well,” you reply with obvious amusement. “We’ll see won’t we?”</p><p>“Yes we will. We will see.”</p><p>You raise a single eyebrow in a way that’s suggestive of battlelines being drawn before starting to smile again as you make an exaggerated display of looking at your watch. “So what about in the meantime then? There are still several hours until this particular showdown is due to take place. It will be an epic confrontation, I’m sure: a true clash of the Titans. How do you propose to spend the rest of the afternoon?”</p><p>This is a simple enough question, but as usual it ends up causing a mini-argument because we’re almost never able to agree on shared activities. Of course it doesn’t help that I never want to go out (whereas you’re rarely keen to stay in), but fortunately this is one of the few occasions where you’re willing to back down first and after a bit of sighing and raising of eyebrows finally agree to playact being normal for a while by sitting down with me to watch TV. This is actually one of the few past-times we have that comes close to approaching ‘ordinary’ – although it’s still also borderline impossible to find anything you’ll deign to pay attention to for longer than five minutes, so somehow always winds up more like a form of psychological torture than actual entertainment. You now settle down and proceed with the inevitable channel hopping so I do my best to zone out from it then spread myself across the couch and put my feet on your knee instead. I’m secretly trying to train you to massage them whenever I do this; so far I’m having a pretty decent success rate. To be honest all it’s really taken is a bit of strategic reinforcement…not all that dissimilar to how I’d train a dog. You now obediently start to rub my feet and I turn my face away to hide the smirk that’s immediately started to form.</p><p>“European television is even worse than American,” you say in a withering voice. Considering this is a variation of what you <em>always</em> say I don’t see any need to reply to it and just make a vague humming noise instead. “At least in America there is a greater choice.” You turn round yourself then narrow your eyes. “What are you smiling at?”</p><p>“Nothing,” I say smugly. “Why not just try the news?”</p><p>You don’t look very impressed with this suggestion (although that’s only because you didn’t think of it yourself and can never admit other people might have the occasional good idea). You switch over anyway though, and then even put down the remote and affect a level of interest when it turns out to be covering <em>Il Macellaio</em>. The guy being interviewed is a local police chief, very earnest and sombre with a huge bristling moustache like a walrus.</p><p>“What’s he saying?” I ask.</p><p>“Nothing worth translating. He is just stating the obvious.”</p><p>I repeat the same humming noise as before, then hear the words <em>Americano</em> and <em>Federale</em> and promptly feel myself tense. “What was that?” I say sharply. “Are they going to contact the FBI?”</p><p>“No,” you reply. You sound unbelievably bored: anyone would think you were watching bowls or lawn tennis, or possibly drying paint. “He’s merely observing that American law enforcement has greater expertise with these types of offenders. In other words he is stating the obvious – exactly as I said.” You yawn and stretch a bit then idly reach down to resume rubbing my feet. “So when exactly <em>was</em> the last time you contacted your Uncle Jack?” you add. “You never tell me when you’ve spoken to him.”</p><p>“That’s because I <em>don’t</em> speak with him. I write him instead.”</p><p>You make an impatient gesture which I suppose is meant to be a shrug – a rather elegant roll with one shoulder. “Same difference, more or less. But if the local police <em>do</em> have plans to ask for help then I would expect you’d hear of it directly from him.”</p><p>Your voice has taken on a distinct edge by now, which is pretty much standard whenever the subject of Jack comes up. The logical explanation would be that it’s resentment of the threat he poses, but of course the reality is nothing so straightforward – it’s simply that you’re jealous of me paying attention to anyone who isn’t you. It’s not like you even have any reason to be (although admittedly a lack of reason has never been enough to stop you before), because the basis of my contact isn’t sentimental. Well, maybe it is a <em>bit</em>. But the main purpose is that it seems like a useful form of precaution. Vanishing without a trace would draw unnecessary attention, but some bland emails a few times a year are an easy way to pass under the radar; a kind of mental prophylactic to keep him at arm’s length. There’s also the way I make a point of emphasising that I’ve not seen or heard from you, which after enough time passes I’m hoping he’ll interpret to mean that you’re dead. He’d probably deny it if I asked him, but I know he sees me being out in the world as a form of live bait. This means that every one of those bland messages feels like a way to slowly chip away at the Manhunt, because as far as Jack’s concerned if you <em>were</em> alive then I’d be the first person you’d go after. The existence of me without you points to an irresistible conclusion that I’m hoping (one day) might finally cancel out his need to keep searching.</p><p>“Oh God, I really hope they don’t contact the BSU,” I say, half under my breath.</p><p>“I know you do. But it is not especially likely.”</p><p>“No…but it’s not impossible either. The Unit <em>does </em>provide outside consultation – I’ve even done it myself.” </p><p>I now fall silent for a few seconds as I picture it: a particularly vicious case involving attacks on Canadian college students. The main thing I remember is how cold it was – a knife-like wind that sliced the skin and a snow on every surface like frosting on a cake – but the investigation itself is surprising hard to recall. Or maybe it’s not surprising. It was in the era before you arrived after all, so perhaps it was inevitable it would slip into oblivion? In this respect I often get an odd sense of excavating my life in the manner of an archaeological dig wherever you’re concerned: a palimpsest of past selves, arranged in dusty layers of reducing recency that begin from just a few years ago and get older and older, bisected in half by Life Before You. <em>AH</em> instead of <em>AD</em>.</p><p>I sigh very slightly then turn back to face you again. “Agencies do send for external help. It <em>can</em> happen.”</p><p>You shrug again; you know I’m right. You’re just not going to admit it. “You worry too much,” is all you say.</p><p>“Good,” I reply sarcastically. “I guess one of us has to.”</p><p>You smile a bit and then lean back against the sofa, staring at me meditatively like you’ve slipped into therapist mode without fully realising it. “I’m surprised you haven’t shown a greater personal interest,” you say. “Perhaps we should find an opportunity to discuss the case between ourselves? You and I Will, sat in chairs and trading insights – just like old times.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” I say with a small shudder. “That’s the last thing I want to do.”</p><p>You continue staring for a few more seconds then dip your head in agreement. The faint smile is still there though: I can see it, flickering across your face like the wick on a candle. “Yes, I suppose that’s understandable,” you say. “Not least because this particular killer is profoundly uninteresting. One might say fatally so. His crimes are so graceless and artless – so utterly <em>pointless</em>.”</p><p>Your disdain is obvious, although I know your reasons are radically different to how most people would feel discussing a similar subject. As far as you’re concerned the corruption of <em>Il Macellaio</em> isn’t that he kills people; it’s simply that he does it <em>badly</em>. For you it’s all about the elegance and the tableaux, where the way something’s presented matters just as much as what it is that’s displayed. It’s about configuring death as art, yet also as arbitrary: your grand arrangement in which everyone’s equally deserving. Sadistic yet virtuosic, theatrical yet meticulous…you always wanted to transmute the vulgar and banal and turn it into something beautiful that warranted exhibition. I know if I closed my eyes right now I’d still be able to re-imagine it all: the police reports and crime scene photos, swathed in tattered tape that fluttered in empty air. The initial impressions, the instincts, the narrative that had emerged from each imprinting…so vivid and vital when torn from behind the dry typescript and photocopied pages, like a gothic <em>Grand Guignol</em> tragedy performed just for me – the only one who could see it. I suppose I should be disturbed by admitting this, and yet I’m honestly not. I’m miles away from that point by now. Miles and miles.</p><p>“Imagine if Jack <em>did</em> come here to set up a taskforce,” is all I say instead. I’m trying to keep my tone light to disguise how much the idea unnerves me, although I’ve no idea how convincing it is. “He’d be on the phone before his plane had landed. I’d definitely get dragged in to help.”</p><p>I screw up my face in an exaggerated way and you smile then lean over to tap the edge of my nose with your finger. “Probably,” you say. “But think how cross you’d be while you were doing it. You love being cross: I think you’d enjoy yourself immensely.” I start to smile and you smile back too before adding in a more thoughtful tone: “I confess, I’m far less opposed to the idea than you are. I wouldn’t be all that averse to seeing Jack again.”</p><p>I know if you say a single <em>word</em> about ‘having an old friend for dinner’ then there’s a real possibility I’ll be tempted to kill you myself, but fortunately you just smile again then decide to drop the subject completely. “Let’s go out,” you say, gesturing your hand towards the doorway. “I know you want to stay indoors, but it’s such a beautiful evening I intend to persuade you to change your mind.”</p><p>If I’m honest I’m still not keen, but after you were so amenable to the TV-watching it seems a bit selfish to refuse. I suppose relationships are built on such moments of small compromise, even if I still find concepts like that hard to apply to you. It seems like the language of magazines and TV talk shows, written in swirling fonts with lots of exclamation points: <em>Top Tips to Make Your Relationship Zing!</em> Somehow you always seem above such petty dynamics. Even so, you’re more attuned to it then I give you credit for because it’s obvious how much you like it when you see I’m making an effort to keep you happy.</p><p>By this time we’ve left it too late for the theatre – and you object to most restaurants on principle – so we finally agree on a <em>trattoria</em> you know in the older, quieter part of town where there are less tourists and an abundance of winding narrow streets to get lost in. I like being here together. The gothic atmosphere always suits you: shopfronts lurching like broken teeth from where centuries of erosion have made them swell and sag, ancient walls soaring up skyward, and everything bathed in the flickering amber glow of the streetlights. We order <em>Negronis </em>then drink them side by side on a small sidewalk bench, your eyes darting back and forth as you watch the passers-by. You skim your hand along my arm in a rather absent-minded way while you do it, and I tolerate it for a while before the sensation slowly grows annoying and I give a series of shuffles.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” you say placidly. “Why are you fidgeting so much?”</p><p>“Stop it please.”</p><p>“Stop what?”</p><p>“<em>That</em>,” I say as you do it again. “It feels like you’re patting me. Like I’m a dog.”</p><p>“Is that how one touches a dog?” you reply, removing your hand. “I apologise – and concede to your greater expertise.”</p><p>Now I feel guilty for being unreasonable, which was no doubt your intention (although it really <em>did</em> feel like stroking a dog). I shuffle a bit closer again then stretch my legs out until I can tangle my feet with yours. “Speaking of dogs…” I say. “I was thinking I might go to <em>Vita</em> <em>da Cani</em> tomorrow.”</p><p>This is a reference to a local shelter I’ve discovered and have recently begun to volunteer for. I try to visit at least once a week and always enjoy it, although it’s a dedication you seem to find equal parts amusing and pointless. “Off to get your canine fix?” you’ll say as I’m preparing to leave, but the obvious derision is never enough to dissuade me. “You just don’t understand,” I’ll tell you, arms folded and borderline self-righteous (at which point you’ll raise your eyebrows then reply with something which basically means: ‘<em>You’re correct Will, I <span class="u">don’t</span> understand</em>. <em>I shall never understand how anything so dirty and slobbering can arouse such fond feelings in an otherwise sensible human being</em>.’) To be honest I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re secretly relieved it’s so difficult to buy a house, because once we’re not renting then there’ll be no excuses left and you’ll have no choice but to let me get one. Or, indeed, several.</p><p>You now give the tiniest hint of an eye-roll then rest your hand on my arm again. “I’m sure your hairy children will be delighted to see you,” you say.</p><p>“Oh shut up.”</p><p>“On the contrary – I am entirely sincere. After all, it’s not that long since you were in their position yourself. No doubt you are able to offer them extremely sage advice for making life behind bars work to one’s advantage.”</p><p>“Hilarious aren’t you?” I say; which promptly makes you start smirking again like you’re silently agreeing that this is the case. “You’re forgetting that you could do the same,” I add. “Oh sorry, I forgot – you can’t really, can you? Maybe we can find you a hamster to advise about living in a glass box.”</p><p>Your mouth starts to twitch the way it does when you’re struggling not to laugh and I have one of my sudden rushes of fondness for you and lean over to give you a kiss (I end up mistiming it slightly and bounce off one of your cheekbones instead…those bastards are always getting in the way). “You’re so annoying,” I add. “Have I ever told you that?”</p><p>This time you smile properly, the effort of concealing having clearly become too much for you. “I believe you might have mentioned it once or twice, yes.”</p><p>“Well you are. Just so you know.”</p><p>I’m expecting you to smile again – one of these rare, genuine smiles that reach your eyes – but even as I’m speaking I can tell I no longer have your full attention. Instead your gaze has shifted, your body leaning slightly forward as you begin to stare almost fixedly at a woman sitting a few tables away from us. I follow your gaze then promptly feel myself stiffen.</p><p>“Hey,” I say sharply. “Isn’t that…”</p><p>You lean back in your chair again, both your eyebrows still raised. “Indeed it is,” you reply. “A rather remarkable coincidence.”</p><p>Without fully meaning to I now find myself glancing from you to the woman then back again, trying to reassure myself that you’re not genuinely intrigued by her presence. It doesn’t seem as if you are. In fact after the first, initial surprise you appear to have lost all interest and are now looking at me instead. Even so, I still don’t like it. The sensation of seeing your drawing brought to life is incredibly eerie, but in spite of that I can’t help silently compliment the skill you showed in capturing her likeness so precisely. As I watch she starts to flick through the menu, her lips moving slightly as she deciphers the Italian. It’s clear she’s completely unaware of our presence so I take the opportunity to stare a little harder, brooding over how the living version stirs the same vague recognition as when I looked at your sketch while remaining so stubbornly unsubstantial as to be essentially meaningless. There’s nothing at all remarkable about her – really, she could be anybody – but as she turns to rummage in her purse I notice she’s wearing a name badge and promptly strain even further in an effort to read it. It’s the type of cheap adhesive version they give people at conferences which suggests she’s come from some meeting or other, perhaps choosing to stop here on the way to her hotel. The fact she didn’t choose to eat with a group of delegates in similar cheap badges implies she’s a solitary person, and the small frown round her eyebrows indicates a measure of solemnness – but really, I don’t care enough to try and work her out. <em>And neither do you</em>, I remind myself firmly. <em>It was only her face you found interesting</em>.</p><p>Abruptly I now drain my glass then press it down against the table. “Come on,” I say. “It’s late. Let’s go home.”</p><p>You must have noticed my change in manner but once again it’s clear you’re not going to comment on it. Perhaps you think I’m just nervous. I suppose I am – I’ve been nervous for days. But in this exact moment it’s more than just that. It’s a powerful sense of possessiveness that transcends anything so simple as nerves: namely an intense, irrational resentment of you choosing to draw her that makes me feel faintly ashamed of myself and bothers me in ways I’m not fully comfortable admitting to. After all, this is something I’m constantly criticising you for and yet when it comes down to it I seem to be just as bad. Beside me you calmly begin to count out some notes for the tab, your other hand resting comfortably across my knee, so I use the distraction as an opportunity for another final stare. Her badge was in shadow before but in those few seconds I see it clearly enough to read what I assume is her own handwriting, very neat and precise, which has been used to label herself. And so it’s then that I’m finally able to identify her: <em>Clarice Starling</em>.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Please only read this note if you don’t mind spoilers…</p><p>…three…<br/>…two…<br/>…one…</p><p>The character of Clarice obviously has a lot of strong associations from the original novels/films, so just to reassure anyone who’s wondering that H will NOT be romantically drawn to her in this fic. My intention is to use the character respectfully (and hopefully in a way that people will find interesting to read) but there’ll be no breaking up of Hannigram on my watch :-D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a cluster of police at the end of the street and at the sight of them I instinctively shift aside, positioning myself between you and them in a deliberately defensive way like some sort of half-assed human shield. I know this is dumb. They’re not paying us any attention (and it’s not like you’d need any help even if they were) but the thought of law enforcement anywhere near you always makes me insanely protective. I’m like fear and doubt on steroids and it’s obvious you find it amusing whenever it happens. Even so I suspect you quite like it too, regardless of how unnecessary it might be.</p><p>As predicted your lips twitch into the faintest hint of a smile. “It’s fine,” you say, right on cue. “They’re here for <em>Il Macellaio</em><em>,</em> not for me.”</p><p>I open my mouth to reply before realising, a bit too late, that I don’t have anything much to add and am forced to close it again. Then I just frown for a few seconds before taking hold of your arm instead, tightly clinging onto it as if we’re a pair of pensioners. From the corner of my eye I see you glance at me with surprise. I don’t blame you: normally I’m too self-conscious to be affectionate in public, but anxiety seems to be pushing me beyond the point of caring.</p><p>“So what do you think?” I say. My voice hardly sounds like mine: low and urgent, threaded through with agitation. “Do you think she’s following you?”</p><p>You straighten the collar on your jacket then flex your neck a few times, relaxed and casual like someone without a care in the world. “Who?” you say.</p><p>“What do you mean <em>who</em>?” Now I sound annoyed instead; almost teacherly. Probably no one’s spoken to you like this since you were about 12 (possibly not even then) but you never seem to mind. “That woman, of course. The one in the café. It’s the second time you’ve seen her.”</p><p>“Well if so she’s doing a very poor job at it,” you say airily. “A desecration of the fine art of surveillance. She’s never made any attempt to conceal herself.”</p><p>You seem amused at the idea and I immediately feel the familiar twinge of envy merged with irritation. Seriously – it’s like you never have even the slightest shit to give about <em>anything</em>. Not, admittedly, that I think that myself: it’s obvious she wasn’t following you. The question is more to satisfy my private paranoia that your interest in her really was as superficial as you claimed it to be, and the awareness of probing in such an underhand way makes me feel ashamed of myself all over again. It’s not like your overt possessiveness is any better than my more conniving variety, but at least there’s a kind of honesty in how direct you are. Then I have a brief fantasy of searching her name online before persuading myself that such semi-stalking will achieve nothing except needlessly stoke my resentment. After all, it’s clear she’s just visiting and after tonight it’s almost impossible that I’ll ever see her again. <em>And neither</em>, I amend grimly, <em>will you</em>.</p><p>Since we started walking you haven’t spared so much as a backward to the woman – Clarice – yet despite having got what I wanted the knowledge of my own petty possessiveness means I’m not as happy about this reassurance as I should be. When did I become so jealous and grasping? I don’t like it. Then I start wondering if I should apologise to you before noticing how the police have started to stare at us and realising that I like this even less. Most likely it’s just the sight of two men arm-in-arm that’s caught their attention, but I tug on you anyway in an attempt to swerve you down a nearby alley and away from scrutiny. I’m expecting you to follow me, but needless to say you’ve decided you want to be awkward about it and are ignoring my increasingly frantic yanks in favour of grinding to a dead halt in the middle of the street. I give up then. I can’t possibly face pulling on your arm like a dog on a leash (or possibly a toddler on a set of reins) while a gaggle of Italy’s Finest stand by and spectate. Not that this is really the best analogy, because if you <em>were</em> a dog then it would be a hell of a lot easier. After all the average dog (unlike you) is happy to do what it’s told – not to mention having a perfect grasp of what ‘<em>Stay</em>’, ‘<em>No</em>’ and ‘<em>Don’t attack the police officers</em>’ mean…</p><p>“<em>C’</em><em>è un problema</em>?” you call out.</p><p>Your tone is withering enough to quell a lump of granite and at the sound of it I feel myself cringe. You’re always pulling stunts like this, although I never call you out on it because I know it comes from a rare place of positivity – namely your sense of pride and pleasure at being with me, combined with an inability to accept anyone else not being equally overwhelmed with joy at the sight of it. Of course there’s also your extreme arrogance (which cherishes the inalienable right you think you have to do whatever you want without interference from mere mortals) and the fact you’re entitled to take offence in this instance unfortunately doesn’t help that much. After all, it’s a character trait that’s caused so much destruction in the past that it’s hard to not resent it, even in those instances where it’s fully justified.</p><p>In the force of your obvious displeasure the policemen falter then look away, slowly shrinking before your gaze like schoolkids getting lectured by the principle. I suppose it’s the stern, aristocratic air you have that radiates authority – that and the way you can season your words with so much contempt it’s as if they’re getting ready to roll off your tongue and kick the policemen in the face. You’re often able to achieve this without ever needing to shout or show obvious anger. In fact your normal speaking tone is so incredibly threatening when you want it to be that I sometimes expect it to escape from your throat at intervals and start attacking random passers-by. The policemen call back something awkward in Italian and I look at their sheepish expressions and have a sudden, surreal sense of what would happen if they had any idea who they were <em>actually</em> talking to.</p><p>“Come on,” I hiss at you beneath my breath. “Let’s go. <em>Now</em>. I mean it.”</p><p>I can tell that you’d rather stay and lecture them some more (before graduating to God-knows-what at the first hint of further rudeness) but there’s something in my tone that’s enough to make you relent – although not before putting a defiant arm around my shoulder in what’s clearly a wordless invitation for them to go and fuck themselves. The policemen obediently avert their eyes down the neighbouring street and I do a hard turn left and practically drag you away until we’ve been safely swallowed up by the shadows. In my eagerness I move a bit too quickly and as we turn the corner I end up ploughing into you with sufficient force to send me stumbling against the wall. Even though it wasn’t your fault you swoop down immediately and grab hold of my shoulder.</p><p>“Are you all right?” you say. “You moved so fast I didn’t see you.”</p><p>I straighten up then wave my hands around a few times to indicate being fine. “I know,” I reply. “It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”</p><p>I sound incredibly awkward and I’m sure you can tell. It’s difficult to hide it though, because you always over-react at even the slightest sign of hurting me and the association makes me uncomfortable. Reading between the lines it’s probably the closest you’ll ever get to showing guilt for what you’ve done in the past, and I honestly wish you’d just relax a bit and stop being so cautious.  Only I can’t bring myself to mention it – and it’s obvious you won’t either – so ultimately I just do what I always do when it happens, which is to ignore it completely. Then I sigh quietly beneath my breath and take hold of your arm again, gripping it protectively as if I can keep you safe by sheer force of will.</p><p>We walk the rest of the way home in silence, my hand slotted comfortably in yours, until we’ve turned the final corner and I notice a large Mercedes parked nearby. It’s gleaming softly in the moonlight, rakishly sprawled across the curbside like it’s got drunk and fallen over, and at the sight of it I can feel my heart sink straight into my feet. “Oh shit,” I say wearily. “Isn’t that Matteo’s car?”</p><p>Beside me I hear you mutter something in a foreign language: a single, sharp syllable that draws your tongue back against your teeth. This is almost certainly the sound of you swearing and no matter what the situation is it never fails to be hilarious that you won’t do it English. Considering all the things you <em>will</em> do it seems such a pointless boundary to draw; yet you’ve clearly drawn it anyway, because while there’s no doubt you can curse fluently and fearsomely in all five of your different languages you’ll never do it around me in a way I’ll understand. In spite of the stress I can feel myself starting to smile before I tighten my grip on your arm.</p><p>“You stay here,” I say. “I’ll go myself.”</p><p>“No,” you reply with excessive politeness. “You will not.”</p><p>I draw to a halt then glare at you, even though I’m not expecting it to have any impact (it doesn’t). “Well you’re <em>definitely</em> not going,” I snap. “I don’t want him anywhere near you.”</p><p>“Then it appears we are at an impasse,” you say in the same polite tone. “Because I do not intend to have him anywhere near <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Throughout this exchange my eyebrows have been elevating up my forehead and they now draw to a halt before descending again in a truly spectacular scowl. Briefly it seems like we might be on the verge of a full-blown argument but then I see you glance across my shoulder again as your own stern expression starts to soften into a smile. “It appears that neither of us will have to go,” you add. “Look.”</p><p>I turn round too then let out an audible sigh of relief as a blonde woman glides out from one of the nearby houses towards the direction of the car. “A false alarm,” you say in confirmation. “It’s not him at all.”</p><p>I shrug, suddenly self-conscious at a sense of over-reacting. “No. Seems that way.”</p><p>“You’re so tense Will.” You wait a few seconds, regarding me intently in the moonlight before reaching into your pocket for the keys. “You need to calm down.”</p><p>“You mean like you?” I say irritably.</p><p>I’m being openly rude by now. In fact I’m half-expecting you to snap something back at me, but as usual you don’t show any signs of annoyance and just place a calming hand on my shoulder instead before silently following me into the house. Once there you make me sit on the sofa then vanish into the kitchen, returning a few moments later with a tray of <em>pizzelles </em>and some of the orange blossom tea that I first tried during a trip to Rome and have developed a bit of a mania for. It’s fragrant and soothing and after the first few sips I can feel some of my previous tension start to ebb away.</p><p>“Thanks for this,” I say eventually. I smile then tilt the teacup rather sardonically in your direction. “Cheers.”</p><p>You gaze back at me for a while then smile too as you raise your own cup. “<em>Sant</em><em>é</em>.”</p><p>“Why are you toasting me in French? We’re in Italy.”</p><p>“Why are you toasting me in English?” you reply. “We’re in Italy.”</p><p>This makes me laugh. I always like it when you unwind a bit and lower yourself enough to my level to be mischievously dumb. “<em>Touch</em><em>é</em>,” I say.</p><p>“Oh yes, very good – I suppose that means I should reply to you in English this time? Only I’m afraid the right word escapes me. You’re going to have to assist.”</p><p>“Actually, I’m not sure what the English equivalent would be.” I realise I’ve started smiling again, but I can’t really help it because it’s so rare for you to struggle translating something and the admission of weakness is always rather endearing. “You know, I don’t think there is one. ‘Good point,’ maybe? Or ‘Got me’?” I pause then give a faint smirk. “’Burn’?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“’Burn’.”</p><p>“What on earth does burning have to do with it?”</p><p>“Sick burn, bro.”</p><p>Your eyes begin to narrow, the same way they always do when you know I’m making fun of you but can’t quite understand how, and I smile even harder then replace my cup on the table so I can stretch out to rest my feet across your lap. “You know I really like this couch,” I add. “It’s comfortable.”</p><p>“Yes, I’d assumed as much. You are always rolling about on it.”</p><p>“The upholstery is so soft. Like velvet…it reminds me of that other couch.”</p><p>“Which couch?”</p><p>“That one in my old place.” I half want to clarify ‘<em>that one we made out on for the first time</em>’ except that this is the kind of slang phrase that’s impossible to say to you. Anyway, I bet you <em>do </em>remember it. I bet you’ve got it stashed away in your Memory Palace somewhere, sentimental old bullshitter that you are. I smile to myself for a second time then stretch out to give you a small prod with my foot to make sure I’ve got your attention.</p><p>“I’m sorry I snapped at you earlier,” I say. Predictably you don’t reply. I knew you wouldn’t: you’re doing it on purpose to see how much I’ll admit to on my own. “It’s just that you’re always so blasé about everything. So casual. I feel like we might be heading towards serious trouble and you don’t even care.”</p><p>“Is that so? I suppose I could feign some anxiety for you if it would make you feel better.”</p><p>“Yes,” I say drily. “You do that.”</p><p>You smile too then reach down to begin massaging my feet (successful training continued: I allow myself a mental high-five). “Don’t mistake my calmness for complacency Will,” you add. “I never direct my attention to sheltering from threats as opposed to being bold in facing them. But you should rest assured that if a threat <em>did </em>appear then I would be the first to act.”</p><p>For a few moments it’s a genuine struggle not to let my annoyance show; I finally content myself with a quick, impatient sound between my teeth. “You mean instead of planning how to avoid it in the first place?” I say. “Okay, that’s great. You really don’t really learn from your mistakes do you?” You give me a rather ominous little smile then calmly resume massaging my feet with one hand, the other one resting comfortably across my leg. “You know I once read a forensics report about you,” I add. “It said your IQ was immeasurable by the standard tests.”</p><p>“Did it?” you say politely.</p><p>“Yes, it did. And I have to say that for someone whose IQ is immeasurable by the standard tests…” I pause again; you raise your eyebrows expectantly. “…Then you’re actually a bit of a dumbass.”</p><p>This makes you laugh out loud, which doesn’t happen very often so it’s always nice to hear. “Yes I dare say,” you reply. “I suppose I shall have to rely on your superior judgement. It’s fortunate for me that you’re not just a pretty face.”</p><p>I reach out to give you a harder prod with my foot. “What did I say about calling me pretty?”</p><p>“I believe you said you would end me.”</p><p>“Well, there you go. One more strike and you’re out.”</p><p>“Understood.” You glance up then give me a long, slow side-stare. “From now on I shall keep my raptures to myself. It’s still true though. Physically you are very beautiful; I’ve always thought so.”</p><p>“Have you?” I frown rather sceptically, briefly falling silent again as I try to picture it: you sitting in your office, fixing me in place with those gleaming eyes while plotting my destruction, only to pause every so often to amend to yourself ‘…even so, he <em>is</em> very physically beautiful.’ There’s no real reason for you to lie about it but somehow I still find it hard to imagine.</p><p>“Naturally I have.” You sound amused now; you always enjoy the sense of catching me off-guard. “Why would you find it so surprising? I might not always have been as ardent as I am now, but even you can’t have been blind to the admiration.”</p><p>“Well, I was,” I say firmly. “Completely blind.”</p><p>“I don’t believe you. You must have been aware, whether you want to admit it or not. After all, our entire acquaintance has been one long process of tantalization.” You smile a bit more then take hold of my foot and start to stroke along the arch. “In anecdotal terms it could be described as the ‘world’s longest first date.’”</p><p>Now it’s my turn to sound amused. “Oh shut up. You don’t even know what a date is.”</p><p>“Do you mean literally or figuratively? Surely you don’t believe I’ve never heard the word before.”</p><p>“I mean it every possible way,” I say. “It’s like, just – look at you. No offence…”</p><p>“None taken.”</p><p>“…But you’re not exactly what rom-coms are made of.” I can see your eyes start to narrow again; I suspect you don’t know what a rom-com is but don’t want to admit it. I give you a rather triumphant smirk then follow it up with another prod with my foot. “Your entire idea of seduction,” I say firmly, “is to call someone a mongoose and then try to murder them.”</p><p>For a few seconds it seems like I might have finally achieved my ambition of shocking you into silence because you don’t even attempt to respond. Instead you just lean against the sofa then stare at me without speaking before abruptly pouncing forwards to wrap your arms around my chest. Even after all this time the sight of you making any sudden movements instinctively freaks me out, but it’s not like you to be so exuberant and I immediately start laughing at the sight of it. You smile back then pretend to swipe at me before burying your face in my hair.</p><p>“I adore you,” you say. “But you are enough to drive a person to distraction. You are a little horror.”</p><p>“Says you.”</p><p>“Says me.” You nuzzle my hair again then lean back so you can give me a rather sardonic look. “But with the important caveat that I am not as little as you are.”</p><p>I roll my eyes at you (at which point you roll yours right back) then struggle free so I can settle down again across the cushions and replace my feet on your knee. “Yeah, well, I guess I know what you mean,” I add. “About a date. It’s a stupid analogy,” (you promptly start smirking again), “but it makes a certain kind of sense.”</p><p>“So it is sensible yet stupid? I suppose I can understand your objections. <em>Date</em> suggests something overtly romantic and trivial – and far less arduous than our relationship has been. Besides, anyone can find a lover; it is not especially difficult. I desired something far more…substantial.”</p><p>“I know,” I say drily. “You wanted an alternate version of yourself.”</p><p>“Is that really what you think?” you reply. You sound genuinely surprised. “Because if so you are entirely wrong.”</p><p>“Am I?”</p><p>“Of course you are.” I was being flippant before, but the tone of your voice is now so serious that it forces me to sober up a bit before glancing round to look at you directly. “Do you want to know why I acted the way I did?” you add. “It was actually very simple. Selfish, perhaps, but simple. Because I never wanted a version of myself, Will: I wanted something which in the whole of my life I’ve never had before.” You wait a few moments, presumably for dramatic effect, then let your gaze slide slowly across my face, from eyes to lips then back again. “I wanted an equal. Why would I have chosen you otherwise?”</p><p>You don’t add anything else, but then of course you don’t really have to. What you actually mean is: <em>because otherwise you wouldn’t have survived me for as long as you did</em>. And it might be the truth, and we might have moved past it, but the raw implications of it still manages to chill me to my core. My sense of unease must show in my face, because you now take a quick look at me then lean a little further forward.</p><p>“Will,” you say quietly. “<em>Aš tave labai myliu. </em>It’s in the past.”</p><p>I know you’re telling me you love me, just like I know that choosing to do it in your native language rather than English is significant. In the early days when we’d first arrived in Europe you once explained why, although it was clear the disclosure made you uncomfortable because you’ve never referred to it again. But apparently the first time you remember using the phrase was to your sister, and it wasn’t until decades of waiting – patient and pensive – that you finally found someone else to inspire the same pure sense of devotion.</p><p>‘<em>My fantasy has always been that what was done could be undone and one day she’d be restored to me</em>,’ you’d said. ‘<em>Should the universe contract…should time reverse and teacups come together</em>.’ For a brief time you’d looked genuinely sad, your eyes focussed in the distance somewhere beyond my shoulder. ‘<em>It’s a reflection of the physicist Stephen Hawking: the broken cup is a metaphor for turning back time. I called you that myself once, didn’t I. Do you remember? Jack’s fragile little teacup…</em>’ This time you’d left an even larger pause before you’d finally turned back to look at me, your face still wearing that grim, haunted expression of the same old ghosts you must have carried with you for most of your life. ‘<em>Occasionally I do the same: I drop a teacup to shatter on the floor on purpose. I am not satisfied when it doesn’t gather itself up again, yet of course it’s impossible – God’s most malevolent deceit</em>.’</p><p>‘<em>God can't save any of us,</em>’ I’d replied. ‘<em>It's inelegant. Elegance is more important than suffering. That's his design</em>.’</p><p><em>‘Then we shall have to save ourselves,’ </em>you’d said. <em>‘Won’t we?’</em> You’d smiled then, very soft and sad, before adding in an even quieter voice: ‘<em>I’ve only had cause to shatter a single cup in the past few months. Would you like to know what my conclusions were</em>?’ I’d nodded without speaking and you’d waited a little longer before tracing your finger along my jaw like you were trying to memorise the contours of my face. ‘<em>My conclusion was that as long as I have you near me then I’d be content for it to never gather together</em>.’</p><p>Amid the previous flash of bleakness my memory of this conversation feels grounding and I let out a breath I didn’t even realise I was holding. “Yes,” I say slowly. “I guess so.”</p><p>“It is not a matter of guessing,” you reply. “It’s in the past. And where we are concerned, the past is not destined to be prologue.”</p><p>“I hope not,” I say, with a rather lop-sided smile. “Besides, I know how the saying goes: when the past calls you, ignore it. It never has anything new to say.”</p><p>“Indeed. Although I understand your discomfort – a persistent caller is always a strain.”</p><p>“I know.” Briefly I catch your eye, doing my best to hold the gaze. “Then I suppose I’ll just have to get too busy living to answer.”</p><p>As I watch you start to smile again then reach out to take hold of my hand so you can kiss the back of it. You do this in a rather theatrical way, and I know it’s on purpose to try to break the tension and make me laugh.</p><p>“Look at you,” you say fondly, without letting go. “You’re so charming when you want to be.”</p><p>Seeing how I loathe being called charming (which is basically just a slightly more macho cousin of ‘sweet’ or ‘cute’) I roll my eyes at you then carefully remove my hand. “And look at <em>you</em>,” I say. “You’re really running with that whole first date idea, aren’t you? Are you going to buy me flowers as well?”</p><p>“I am not.” Your own voice sounds much lighter than before, just like mine does. It’s hard to imagine you have a threshold for intensity, but it seems that last conversation might just have come extremely close to breaching it. “Yet for all your mockery I maintain that I <em>absolutely</em> could have seduced you earlier if I’d wanted to.”</p><p>“Yeah, right,” I say smugly. “You keep telling yourself that.”</p><p>“I intend to,” you reply (equally smugly), “because it is entirely true. It just so happened that I was more intrigued with possessing your mind than your body.”</p><p>Coming from you I’m aware that this is an enormous compliment – not to mention an apt analogy, considering that slow throb of temptation undoubtedly <em>was</em> a form of seduction. But I still start frowning anyway, mostly because any reference to your skill at seducing people is always guaranteed to annoy me. I even made the mistake of asking you about it once. It was during one of those <em>‘So go on then, how many people have you slept with?’</em> conversations that people often have with new partners, and which tend to feel profound at the time but are always highly mortifying when remembered afterwards. The problem – not to put too fine a point on it – was that you ended up looking like the most enormous Man Slut, because you’d thought about it for a while before replying with a completely straight face that you couldn’t remember. I mean you <em>really</em> couldn’t. You couldn’t remember their names, how many were women or men, or how old you were. You couldn’t even remember which country you were in the time.</p><p>‘<em>Are you kidding me</em>?’ I’d said incredulously. ‘<em>How could you forget something like that?’</em></p><p>‘<em>Because it’s not worth the trouble to memorise</em>,’ you’d replied. ‘<em>Why would I?’</em></p><p>
  <em>‘Yes, but…most people would at least know.’</em>
</p><p><em>‘But I am not most people,” </em>you’d said crisply. ‘<em>Besides, it’s nothing so remarkable as to be worth remembering. It’s hardly impressive to acquire a sexual partner; even the lowest grade of animal can do it</em>.’</p><p>‘<em>Okay, great – that’s so romantic. You should work for Hallmark</em>.’</p><p>‘<em>I suppose some people obsessively inventory such things</em>,’ you’d added in the same idle way. ‘<em>No doubt there are many modern Don Giovannis, all neurotically clutching their catalogue of conquests. Personally, I’m not remotely concerned unless it was someone significant. You, for example. If it’s any consolation, I remember our first encounter extremely well</em>.’</p><p>I’d been tempted to ask who the other significant people were, but in the end had decided I didn’t want to know. Thinking about it now I find myself scowling even harder before catching your eye again and deciding that it’s not really worth the hassle. After all, you’ve always acted like the Seven Deadly Sins are a daily to-do list; it’s hardly surprising that you’d have Lust thoroughly covered as well.</p><p>“Very sure of yourself aren’t you?” I say irritably. “I think if you’d really believed that you would have just done it.”</p><p>“Oh I <em>undoubtedly</em> could have done it,” you reply. You’ve got that arrogant smile on your face again now – it’s clear you’re deriving a certain satisfaction at the idea. “You were so ferociously adorable; the temptation to possess you in your entirety was extreme. But think how it would have disturbed the balance of things. A few hours in bed, idyllic as they would have undoubtedly been, were hardly worth the risk of losing your confidence in me. Physical intimacy would have sacrificed the emotional connection, and it was the latter I desired more than anything else.” You repeat the smile, this time with a rather sinister little twist. “The opportunity to whisper in your ear.”</p><p>“I don’t know,” I say after a pause. To be honest I’m not enjoying this conversation as much as you are, mostly because it’s so weird to imagine. “Possibly.”</p><p>“No – definitely. It would have depended on the timing of course, but I suspect your sense of shame and vulnerability would have overwhelmed you. Although admittedly that was rather tempting in itself: how beautifully broken you would have been.” I make a huffing noise of dissent and you deliver another slow smile from over the top of your teacup. “There were so many interesting opportunities Will. For example, you were so thin back then that your clothes barely fitted you. It was practically an open invitation. It would have been the easiest thing in the world for me to slide a hand beneath one of those appalling garments without even taking the trouble to undress you.”</p><p>“Jesus, you’ve put <em>way</em> too much thought into this.”</p><p>“You would have been so nervous,” you continue rather dreamily. “Desperately uncomfortable but doing your best to hide it. Then you would have enjoyed yourself immensely, despite trying not to, and been left sweetly and stunningly humiliated straight afterwards.”</p><p>“Ugh, I <em>completely</em> disagree,” I say. I sound a bit pompous, but I can’t really help it because I’ve got defensive over this alternate version of myself and the idea he would have been blushing and wilting across your bedroom floor. “That’s not what would have happened at all. I would have been fine with it. I’d have made some small talk with you then got up, got dressed, and got out.”</p><p>“Yes, that last part is certainly true. You would have been very aloof – rather as if you were doing me a favour.”</p><p>“I <em>would</em> have been doing you a favour,” I say. Now I sound almost as smug as you are. “You’re the one obsessed with seducing me, remember? You should be grateful I’ve given you what you wanted.”</p><p>“Rest assured my appreciation is extreme.”</p><p>“Good,” I say. “It should be. Oh, and for the record my ‘garments’ weren’t appalling.” I stretch out a foot and deliver another prod, time followed up by a sharp little dig with my toes. “Unlike yours.”</p><p>“Whatever you say, beloved.”</p><p>“They weren’t. They were…practical. Utilitarian. Appropriate.”</p><p>“Yes, I agree with you there.” You pause very briefly then run a fastidious eye across my shirt as if silently commiserating with it for being so awful “They were entirely appropriate clothes with which to wade through mud in search of corpses.”</p><p>I make a spluttering noise, then am about to give you a second prod when you dart out and catch hold of my foot before I can manage it. “Monkey toes,” you add fondly, giving them a stroke. “Look how long they are.”</p><p>“Shut up, they’re not.”</p><p>“They are. You have extended phalange bones: very slender and well-shaped…”</p><p>“…and monkey like?”</p><p>“Indeed. Such remarkable specimens should not go to waste; I propose we put them to some practical use. The fruit trees in the garden, for example. I was considering hiring someone for the harvest, but from now on shall just dispense with that plan and send you up instead.”</p><p>I start to laugh then finally haul myself upright so I can climb onto your knee, straddling you rather clumsily until I’m facing you with my legs on either side of yours. You smile up at me then reach out to remove my glasses and set them carefully on the arm of the sofa. “Do you want to know what <em>I</em> think?” I say.</p><p>You smile again, using both hands to take hold of my waist. “What do you think?”</p><p>“I think <em>I</em> would have seduced <em>you</em>. Only not sincerely – I would have done it to manipulate you into acting how I wanted.”</p><p>“But you achieved that anyway.”</p><p>“Then I guess I miscalculated, didn’t I? After all, this would have been a lot quicker. Far more efficient.”</p><p>“Indeed it would. Much more.” Your tone has dropped now: so low and resonant you almost sound like you’re purring. “What a <em>magnificent</em> creation you are Will Graham. So bold. So audacious. Yet still so haunted by your own sense of yourself.”</p><p>This theme has become so well-worn that it’s hard to resist an urge to roll my eyes at the mention of it. Instead I smooth your hair off your forehead and give it a gentle tug. “Hardly.”</p><p>Needless to say this isn’t enough to stop you – it’s nowhere near enough. Sometime I wonder why I even bother. “No: certainly,” you reply. “You embody the observation that ‘<em>Behind every exquisite thing that existed, there was something tragic.</em>’ Yet what a greater tragedy it would have been if you’d never realised your potential and were doomed to languish and waste away in the custody of Jack Crawford. That was always my choice wasn’t it? Whether to sacrifice or save you.”</p><p>“Then it looks like I overestimated you didn’t I?” Slowly I begin to grind my hips against yours; partly because I like the way it makes you catch your breath, but mostly because I’m not in the mood to be analysed and it seems like the easiest way to shut you up. “I acted like you were some kind of epic adversary when all the time you were just as dumb and gullible as a <em>normal</em> person.”</p><p>Your eyes flash slightly at this, yet despite your obvious irritation you still don’t try to contradict me. I know I’m being a dick to you, only I can’t help getting a charge out of being so rude while knowing you won’t do anything to retaliate. There’s something rather thrilling about it; a bit like having a tiger by the tail. Not that it really matters, because by this point the verbal sparring is nothing more than foreplay. We both know we’re going to end up in bed – or, more likely, sprawled across the living room floor because we were too impatient to make it as far as the stairs.</p><p>“Perhaps I should give Jack a call?” I now add. “What do you think? Let him know he can relax because it’s so easy to bring you down.” The idea of me taking Jack’s side over yours, even hypothetically, is always guaranteed to piss you off and I can immediately tell from your expression how annoyed you are that I’ve said it. “Yeah, we all gave you more credit than you deserve,” I continue airily. “I shouldn’t have wasted my time trying to reason with you and just taken you to bed instead.”  </p><p>Your eyebrows promptly descend across your forehead. “And how would you have contrived to do that?” you say. Hmm, yes – you’re <em>definitely</em> pissed off. I give you a faint smirk to show I’m onto you and for a few moments you look like you’re struggling not to roll your eyes. “Perhaps you <em>did</em> miscalculate,” you finally add. “If you’d known I found you so fascinating you could have used it to your advantage. You could have exploited my captivation and used it against me. What do you think Will? Do you think you would have succeeded?”</p><p>I take hold of your hair at the back then give it a tug; hard enough to pull, but not enough to hurt. “Maybe.”</p><p>“Yes – maybe.” You repeat the word very slowly, rolling the first part across your tongue like it’s several syllables longer than it actually is. In the darkness I can see your eyes gleaming at me. “Maybe you could have stopped me from attacking you and seduced me into making love to you instead.”</p><p>You almost <em>never</em> refer to times you’ve hurt me and despite my best efforts I feel myself flinch. I can’t help it though, because it’s hard not to be shocked by the fact you’ve actually gone there. Without fully meaning to I find myself remembering your comments from this afternoon: <em>Loss is something I have almost no tolerance for at all. To lose someone I love touches something primal in me. In fact I find it insufferable – and it makes me strike out. </em>I suppose this current mind game is a version of you doing just that, because pretending I’d betray you to Jack – even as an obvious joke – seems to have triggered you more than I realised.  Not that this is especially surprising. You can’t handle the idea of me rejecting you; you never have. In the resulting silence you continue to stare at me, radiating coiled control and with same inscrutable expression on your face, before leaning forward to brush your lips along my jaw. It’s gentle enough to make me think you regret what you said and are about to backtrack, but when you speak again it’s obvious you intend to do the exact opposite and push it even further.</p><p>“You felt so fragile at the time.” Your voice has taken on a rumbling smoky quality and you skim your palms across my ribs as you’re speaking, slowly drifting further downwards until you can dig your thumbs into the hollow of both hipbones. “Perhaps that’s a strange thing for me to remember, but I do. It’s a lasting impression: just how frail and slim you were, as if too rough a touch would cause you to shatter. So vulnerable, Will. You must have felt it too, but you still didn’t beg did you? Most people would have been pleading and imploring and you just stood your ground and stared at me with that cool defiance you always wear so well.”</p><p>My breath has sped into a kind of pant and you pause for a few more seconds like you’re admiring the way my ribcage is pulsing. “Of course I could have killed you,” you add softly. “You know that don’t you? If I’d chosen a different area for the knife to go in. <em>Here</em>, for example: straight into the heart.” You press two fingers against my chest, very delicate and precise, then cradle my head with the other hand to prevent me pulling away. “How it races. You still wouldn’t have begged though, would you? Not even then. You’d have just carried on staring at me, much as you’re doing right now.”</p><p>By this point there’s an uneasy, angry part of me who wants to protest that this is too much – way too much – and that I don’t want to play this game. <em>Look, you know I was joking about Jack</em>, I could say. <em>Just chill out can’t you? You always take thing too far</em>. Yet it’s clear you’re laying it out as a kind of challenge, and while I know you’d stop immediately if I told you to a stubborn streak of pride prevents me admitting defeat. Instead I rest my head against your neck then let out a half-laugh at the sheer deranged, fucked-upness of the whole scenario. It’s so typical of you – which of course means that’s it’s typical of me as well.</p><p>“Yes,” is all I say.</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>,” you repeat languorously. “Undoubtedly yes.” You pause again to prop your head against mine then lightly kiss my temple; a display of genuine tenderness which feels like a reward for not backing down. “All you would have needed to do was fully catch my eye because a single look from you would have been enough. It would have been so inconvenient for me, wouldn’t it Will? My compassion choked by your charisma – and you being so cunning and resourceful the entire time. If only you’d decided to try it. You could have taken the opportunity to overpower me.” You lean forward again then scrape your teeth very lightly against my throat. “Do you think you would have been able to do that?”</p><p>For a few moments I can feel myself quivering beneath your hands before abandoning all control and twisting round to search out your mouth for a rough kiss: deep and wet, all tongues, teeth and hot panting breath, with you cupping the back of my skull to keep my head still and me fisting rather desperately at your neck and shoulders. “Yes,” I say when I finally pull away. Slowly I ghost my hands up and down your ribs; I can feel your lungs expanding. “You know I would.”</p><p>“Would you? You’re sure that confidence isn’t misplaced?”</p><p>“Of course,” I say, with a touch of arrogance to rival even yours.</p><p>This makes your face flicker into another smile before you let go entirely and lean back against the sofa. Then you just gaze at me for a while before reaching up to cradle my face with your palm, your eyebrows ever-so-slightly raised. The questioning expression is obvious and I understand without being told that you’re well aware you’ve crossed a line and, while you won’t actually apologise, that this gesture is your way of checking I’m okay with it and to offer an escape route if I want one. It often happens like this. You’ll say or do something totally outrageous, then leave yourself unintentionally vulnerable by handing the power back to me over whether or not I’ll forgive you for it. It means I end up in the position of <em>giving</em> rather than you actually <em>taking</em>, and sometimes I will and sometimes I won’t. Except tonight I’m in the mood where I don’t mind playing along, so give you a faint nod to indicate agreement.</p><p>“Go on then,” you say when it’s obvious I’m not intending to walk away. “Show me your best attempt. I want to see what you look like when you’re on your knees. Only you wouldn’t have had long to change my mind, so I suggest you put some effort into it. In fact, I’d advise you to work <em>extremely</em> hard to convince me.”</p><p>I smile back at you, beginning to unfasten your belt with one hand while stroking the edge of your cheek with the other. “Just one thing,” I tell you. “For the record: I want it officially known that I think you’re demented.”</p><p>Your own smile starts to broaden. “Yes, I dare say. But you’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you?”</p><p>“I suppose so,” I reply. And then, because I can’t help myself (and because it’s not like you don’t deserve it): “Anyway, I suppose I’d have to do <em>something</em> to distract you until I let Jack out your cupboard and we come after you with the handcuffs.”</p><p>There’s no way you’ll let me get away with that of course, so I decide not to give you a chance and just drop down to the floor instead (partly because it’ll stop you saying anything, but also because I’ve realised I can’t quite manage your belt one-handed and don’t want to admit it). Then I take a second to catch my breath and get my bearings, because the whole scenario is borderline deranged and it’s hard to process the real-life implications. Could I <em>really</em> have won you over all those years ago simply by falling to my knees like a penitent to go down on you? It’s almost impossible to imagine myself doing such a thing; even harder to imagine you not seeing through it straight away for the clumsy attempt at manipulation it would have undoubtedly been. Knowing you you’d have let me do it and then still stabbed me anyway just to prove a point. Yeah, you almost <em>definitely</em> would have done that. Honestly, you’re such a massive asshole…I don’t know why I love you so much. I lightly nip your leg with my teeth as punishment for being a five-star bastard, then resolve not to think about it anymore and let out my breath in a long sigh so I can luxuriously slide my lips along the entire length of your cock. The way it’s hardening against me feels incredible and I lap at the head with messy open-mouthed kisses before slowly leaning backwards; widening my mouth as far as possible then wantonly gazing upwards so you can see your cock stretched out along my tongue. Your catch your breath then mutter a few sharp words in a foreign language before reaching out to take hold of my chin, gently tilting it further upwards until I’m looking right at you. It’s intensely intimate and I wait a few seconds before temptation finally overtakes me as I bob my head to dive back in again, slipping my tongue into the slit of your cock then doing my best to swallow the entire length. Oh God, you’re <em>really</em> fucking into my mouth now. I can feel you slamming against the back of my throat, so thick and hard it’s almost too much to take. I can just about cope with it, although still make sure I exaggerate the noises I’m making because (not to put too fine a point on it) the sight of me choking on your cock is always guaranteed to drive you a bit wild.</p><p>You now gasp even louder, exactly as predicted, and the sound makes me get even harder myself, barely aware anymore of how I’m starting to gag for real as my mouth gets stretched and filled to the limit. My whole spine’s arching with the motion of it as I ease myself forward, taking you inch by inch until my nose is almost pressed against your stomach. The competing sensations are close to overwhelming: the way you taste, the ache in my jaw, how wet and slick my mouth feels, or the sounds you’re making above me. In fact it’s your reaction that’s consuming me more than anything, because you’re so rigidly controlled for most of the time that watching it unravel never fails to be addictive. Admittedly I’m so feverishly turned on I’m contributing more enthusiasm than technique by this point, although it’s safe to say you probably don’t mind.</p><p>“Good boy,” you say, as if you’re reading my mind. “You look beautiful doing that.” You sound enraptured; it’s a bit weird. Would you have responded in the same ecstatic way if this had happened several years ago? You’re so unpredictable it’s hard to know for sure. I’ve never been able to read you the way I can other people…it seems equally plausible that you’d have been coolly contemptuous the entire time, quietly despising me for trying to indulge your baser instincts.</p><p>“You know how to use your mouth don’t you?” you add. I swirl my tongue in agreement and you sigh appreciatively then tangle your fingers into my hair, gently but firmly pushing my head further down. “Asides from being provoking with it, of course. Because you <em>are </em>provoking, Will – incredibly so. It makes me feel you might need acquainting with some of the penalties for rudeness. A little punishment to show you the error of your ways…do you think you’d like that?” As you’re speaking you rub your thumb against my jaw so you can feel the way it’s sliding round your cock and I give a loud (embarrassing) moan then move my head even faster. “Is that a yes?” you say, your voice practically a purr. “It certainly sounds like a yes.”</p><p>This time I just quiver rather uselessly before pulling away to nuzzle my forehead against your abdomen and draw a few ragged breaths. My eyes are watering slightly and my lips feel swollen from the friction; I dart my tongue out to lick the smears of pre-come and saliva off them. It’s crazy, really – we’ve done this so often, yet even now the frisson and chemistry are still as intense as they’ve always been. I find that it can often hit me like this: just an overwhelming sense of urgent, craving desire. At some point I seem to have started clinging onto your thigh and above me I hear you sigh again then tenderly tuck some loose strands of hair behind my ear as you stroke my cheek with your other hand.</p><p>“Will,” you say softly. “<em>Mylimasis</em>. Beloved.”</p><p>I mutter something nonsensical in response, deliberately letting my legs fall wider apart so you can see how hard I am and know that I’m enjoying it as much as you are. Then I manage to pull myself together enough to let go of you and attempt to shift downwards again, because by now the only thing I really care about is feeling you come straight down my throat. It’s clear you have other ideas though, as when I try to lower my head you catch hold of my chin to stop me. I make an irritated noise but you just carry on holding my face, tilting my head up and forcing me to look straight at you until I realise that you’ve started slowly jerking yourself off with your other hand. It’s incredibly sensual and the sight of it turns me on so much I lose control completely: chanting ‘<em>Oh fuck, oh yes’</em> until I hear you groan and feel the thick, hot ropes of come start to spatter against my skin. I’ve opened my mouth as wide as I can but you deliberately get most of it on my face instead, taking care to avoid my eyes because you know I hate the way it stings.</p><p>“Oh God,” I say. “That was…fuck.”</p><p>In the resulting silence I hear myself panting as I slump back against your leg, blindly fumbling upwards at the same time to try to take hold of your hand. Only nothing happens, and I’m about to ask you what’s wrong when you make a growling noise – a sort of rich vibration, deep in your throat – then roughly hoist me up onto your knee. You’re always able to lift me like I don’t weigh anything and despite being used to it the display of raw strength still feels vaguely unsettling. You pull me backwards until my head is tipped across your shoulder then jam a hand down my shirt as I let out a breathy moan – quickly followed by an even louder one when you start unfastening my jeans with the other.</p><p>“<em>Mylimasis</em>,” you murmur. Your voice is so low and intense; it feels like your teeth are scraping against every bit of skin you can reach. “<em>Mano mieloji</em>. Who do you belong to? Say it.”</p><p>“You.”</p><p>“Again.”</p><p>“You. I belong to you.” Deep down I think we both know this isn’t entirely true – at least not in the way you’d like it to be – but in the moment it still feels like it’s true enough to deserve repeating.</p><p>“For how long?”</p><p>“Forever. For always.”</p><p>“Correct.” You pause for a few moments, inhaling deeply as you drag your nose from my jaw down to my throat. “That’s better Will. You’ve been incredibly rude – are you going to behave yourself now?</p><p>Internally I feel myself smirk. I <em>knew</em> you hadn’t forgiven me for the Jack comments; no doubt you’ve been sulking about it the entire goddamn time. I refuse to answer and you make an amused noise then kiss the side of my jaw.</p><p>“You’re a rebellious boy,” you say. “But I know you can do what you’re told when you think it’s worth your while.”</p><p>As you’re speaking your thumb is rubbing lazy circles round the top of my thigh, the touch so slow and tormenting that I’m soon making small whines of frustration. You completely ignore me, letting me writhe around instead before tugging my head back by the hair as you drag a finger across my face to collect the stray beads of come.</p><p>“Open your mouth,” you say. I do it immediately, letting out another moan as you slide your finger in so I can lick it clean. “That’s it,” you say approvingly. “I knew you could obey if you put your mind to it. You’re going to orgasm for me soon, aren’t you? All over yourself like a needy little teenager. Or…perhaps not. Perhaps I won’t let you. It may be that some punishment is in order first.” Slowly you glide your palm back down my chest, deliberately drawing to a halt just above the abdomen. “Maybe I should put you over my knee instead? A reprimand for your appalling rudeness.”</p><p>The whole time I’ve been nudging the side of your face with my forehead but I now pull back a bit and let out an indignant hissing noise instead. “Ugh,” I say. My voice is hoarse from all the panting so I clear my throat then give it another try. “Don’t even think about it. You wouldn’t <em>dare</em>.”</p><p>“Wouldn’t I?” you reply in an overly innocent way. “Oh yes, I’m sure you’re right Will: I’m sure I wouldn’t <em>really</em> dare. Although admittedly it might defeat the purpose because you’d probably enjoy it too much. I think you secretly yearn to be disciplined. After all, you’ve been pining for a father figure for most of your adult life.”</p><p>“Jesus. I have <em>not</em>.”</p><p>“Of course you have,” you say airily. “You are the proverbial Lost Boy. Why else would you have grown so reliant on myself and your Uncle Jack?”</p><p>In the darkness I feel myself starting to blush. There’s no way I’d ever admit it, but deep down I know there’s <em>just</em> enough truth to this last part for it to feel vaguely humiliating – which I suppose was the whole point of saying it at all. It’ll be the extent of your revenge though, as the playful tone is clearly your way of showing that while you were offended by what I said about Jack you’re not genuinely angered by it. Anyway, it appears I’m forgiven (at least for now) because you finally relent enough to give me a rough kiss before holding your hand in front of my face and telling me to spit into it so you can reach down to jerk me off in a series of quick, tight strokes. I make a helpless moaning noise, which quickly turns into a wail as you force my head to the side so you can press your mouth against my throat and suck a deep bruise against the skin.</p><p>“Oh that’s <em>good</em>,” I say. I sound a bit shocked. “Oh fuck.”</p><p>“That’s better,” you reply softly. “You’re so aloof, but even you can’t maintain it indefinitely. Your body always gives you away.”</p><p>There’s a possessive twist to your voice when you say this, almost like you think my body is on your side and secretly plots with you behind my back. Even so, I know you won’t be totally satisfied with what’s happening. You might be taking the lead but you’ll still resent it, because as far as you’re concerned there’s only one ‘right’ way for me to come – which is round your cock when you’re fucking me. But your possessiveness is your own problem, not mine, so instead I screw my eyes tightly closed then press my lips against your face: murmuring about how good it feels and how much I like it, until it seems only seconds have passed and I’m giving a desperate choked-off gasp as I come so hard across both of us I nearly black out. It’s hot and messy and you kiss me through it before I finally groan again then struggle free of your arms so I can flop across the sofa in a boneless heap.</p><p>“<em>God</em>,” I say. I let out a loud sigh and fling my arm across my face. “That was…fucking hell.” I wait a few seconds then slowly lower my arm so I can peer at you over the top of it: as predicted you’re looking extremely smug. “Yeah, nice try,” I add, “but I’m taking credit for that one.”</p><p>“As you wish,” you reply, looking smugger than ever.</p><p>I roll over to prop myself upright on one elbow; you gaze back serenely and I smile a bit more then lean across to run my finger along your cheekbone. “Well, maybe <em>most</em> of the credit,” I say. “Maybe 90%.”</p><p>“So much? I suppose I ought to haggle, but I don’t really have the energy – I shall accept my 10% with reasonably good grace.”</p><p>“Okay, 15% then. That’s as good as you’re getting.”</p><p>“A full 5% raise?” you reply, pretending to sound impressed. “You are a true philanthropist.”</p><p>I laugh again, slowly moving my finger downwards so I can stroke your jaw instead. There’s a light covering of stubble, which is unusual; normally you’re so meticulous about shaving. “Seriously though,” I say after a pause. “You’re okay?”</p><p>“Of course I am. I’ve just gained 5%.”</p><p>“Yeah, but all those things I said,” I add cautiously. “The insults. You know I didn’t really mean it?”</p><p>You look like you’re basking beneath the stroking but as soon as I say this you open your eyes and stare at me rather sardonically. “Yes you did,” you say. “More to the point, you weren’t entirely wrong. I have few sources of weakness, it’s true, but it seems that you’re one of the more pervasive ones.”</p><p>While this has been true for some time it’s only recently that you’ve been so candid in admitting it and I can’t help feeling touched. “Thank you,” I say. Admittedly gratitude probably isn’t quite the right thing to express, but I know you’ll still realise what I mean. “Listen,” I add gently. “I want you to understand something. I won’t ever apologise for ‘betraying’ you to Jack.” The sound of air quotes is obvious but there’s no way you’ll acknowledge them: to you the betrayal was genuine, and as far as you’re concerned a near-fatal stabbing and me refusing to run away with you are completely fair equivalents. “But all that’s in the past. You know I’d never leave you now.”</p><p>You dip your head in acknowledgement then lie very still for a few moments as you stroke your eyes across my face. “You’re so passionate,” you finally reply. You sound unusually pensive; it’s almost as if you’re thinking out loud. “That’s good Will, because we’re going to need it. Passion is like fire: it’s a force to meld and liquefy. It solders two things together. Then afterwards they cool and set, and as they solidify it becomes harder and harder to prise them apart. Day after day, one night after another. Until they gradually become inseparable: fused together as one.”</p><p>Your pillow talk is always absurdly intense and depending on my mood I’ll either find myself laughing or feeling overwhelmed by it. This is undoubtedly one of the latter times and so I don’t even attempt a proper response. Instead I just lean over then press my lips against your forehead.</p><p>“Ditto,” is all I say.</p><p>“Ditto?”</p><p>“It means…” I pause then start to smile. “It means ‘good point, I agree.’ <em>Touch</em><em>é</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Touch</em><em>é,” </em>you reply. “Indeed.”</p><p>I’m still smiling but once more find myself falling silent again almost straight away. Then instead of snapping out of it I just stay like that: gazing at the ceiling for what feels like hours with my eyes fixed aimlessly on nothing. I still do this quite often and it’s a bad habit I’ve never been able to fully break – the inevitable backlash that almost always follows a period of good mood. I suppose I’m just not used to being happy, because it’s like I’m haunted by the sense that too much contentment is dangerous: a kind of hex that will tempt fate too far and inevitably lead to misfortune. And yes, it’s stupid and superstitious, but somehow this time it really feels like the pessimism is justified.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” you ask. Your tone is one you don’t often use, very gentle and subdued. It’s obvious you can tell something’s wrong.</p><p>“I’ve been thinking,” I say quietly. “And I think there’s trouble ahead, Hannibal. I’m sure there is. I’ve just…I’ve got a really bad feeling about it.”</p><p>I’m half-expecting you to tell me to calm down or to stop being so paranoid, but you don’t. “Like what, exactly?” you say.</p><p>Wearily I start to catalogue the various sources of disaster in my head before sighing out loud at the sheer extent of the task. Oh God, there’s just so <em>many</em> of them: I don’t even know where to start. Matteo’s cryptic comments, the ever-looming threat of Jack…even our own relationship and how I’m still not sure where we’re going to end up. But it all seems too much to unburden out loud and I’m not even sure that I know how to try.</p><p>For a while you don’t reply either and just stoke your palm along my back, very slow and rhythmic like you’re smoothing out fabric. “Will,” you say finally. “Are you listening?”</p><p>“Yes.” My voice is muffled from where it’s pressed against your shoulder; I relocate it then have another go. “What?”</p><p>“I know you feel apprehensive,” you say. “And I know my own responses don’t always help with that. But whatever may happen in the future, I promise you that your resources are more than equal to dealing with it. You have excessive reserves of resilience. You have intelligence, you have tenacity, and more to the point – you have me.”</p><p>“Yes, but…” I take a deep breath then let it all out in a rush. “<em>Not-if-something-happens-to-you.</em>”</p><p>“What did I tell you before?” you reply in the same soft voice. “<em>Mylimasis</em>. Have you forgotten already? I said that I won’t allow anyone to separate us.” I make a sceptical sound and you pull me a bit closer then press your lips against the top of my head. “Be calm,” you say. “I understand you believe a crisis to be brewing, but consider – what is there left to face that we haven’t already overcome?”</p><p>“That’s not the point,” I say. My voice sounds rather tragic; I frown a bit then clear my throat to try and convince it to lower in pitch and resemble something more masculine than anxious bleating. “It’s not always the big dramatic things. Sometimes it’s things no one would ever expect.” I frown a bit more, trying to think of a suitable example. What <em>is</em> a good example? Fucked if I know. “Remember how they brought down Al Capone for tax evasion?” I say eventually.</p><p>This makes you laugh before burying your face in my hair. “Ever the investigator,” you reply. “Jack would be proud of you. I guarantee my tax returns are <em>impeccable</em>.”</p><p>“That’s not what I mean,” I say crossly. “You know it isn’t.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“Idiot.”</p><p>“Brat.”</p><p>“Oh come on, I’m serious.”</p><p>“So am I, I promise you. Deadly serious: serious about protecting myself and protecting you by extension. Besides, where you and I are concerned things have a habit of turning to our advantage.” For a few moments you fall quiet and I can feel a soft ruffling motion of your breath against my face. “Do you want to know something interesting?” you say eventually.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“About your predictions of disaster.” This time your voice has taken on a slightly smouldering tone: a shadowy energy which I recognise from long experience as a sign of anticipation. “When the Chinese write the word ‘crisis’ the hànzì has two brushstrokes in it. The first one signifies danger; but the second – the second one means <em>opportunity</em>.” You pull me even closer, inhaling deeply as if breathing me in, and when you speak again the anticipation in your voice has mellowed into outright relish. “So if your premonition <em>does</em> come true then we shall have to do what we’ve always done. To be mindful of the threat – and then exploit the opportunity.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next morning, I wake up early. The house is so still and quiet it’s like it’s holding its breath and I watch the dust motes dancing in front of me, drawing in my own lungful of air as I revel in the total stillness and solitude. It’s so incredibly peaceful. I suppose I should be used to this by now, yet somehow I’m not and the sense of safety still feels unfamiliar, a bit like wearing someone else’s clothes. No shouting or sirens, no calls to judgement I’m not ready for, no questions I can’t answer…just me with my own thoughts in the empty air and the sound of silence.</p><p>We didn’t bother drawing the curtains last night, which means the first stirrings of dawn are growing very visible as they glide across the sky. The sight of it is striking and I lie still a little longer so I can watch it as an audience of one: glints of stars on the horizon as the sun creeps in from the east to stain the clouds with purple streaks and splashes of crimson the same colour as blood. <em>Morning has broken</em>, I think hazily, because it really does look like someone’s tried to break it – as if it’s bruised and bleeding, yet stunningly defiant regardless. In fact the sunlight also seems to be chasing away my own shadows from the night before, because I’m aware of how their former intensity already feels foggy and almost dreamlike. I often have this sense around you; I’ve probably had it ever since that night in the alleyway when you first came back. Sometimes I think I’m in shock but I’m not really sure…it seems like the type of thing someone else would be aware of before I was myself. That’s the main point of shock after all: a little mental insulation from a world that’s capricious and casual in its cruelty. Even so, I still spend a few moments trying to recapture what’s been happening and deciding how I feel about it (and failing at both) before finally rolling onto my side to see if you’re awake too. It turns out you aren’t, so I tilt my head until it’s resting on my arm to enjoy the novelty of simply being able to watch you. The tints of the sunrise spill dramatically across your face like your own personal spotlight and I’m aware of a weird feeling of resentment: the sense that you’re currently somewhere I can’t follow you.</p><p>As I watch you frown very faintly as if your dreams are troubling you, so I gently breathe across your face while deciding that you don’t look vulnerable in the way most people would. Even your stillness telegraphs something imposing; as if waking you would bring severe consequences, like a slumbering giant in a folktale. If you actually <em>are </em>asleep…I never know with you. Your normal breathing pattern is shallow enough to be deceptive so it’s entirely possible that you’re just lying there plotting with your eyes closed…in which case you almost certainly know I’m gazing at you and are internally smirking about it. I now shift a little so I can see you more clearly, unobscured by the corner of the pillow, while moving as quietly as possible so as not to rouse you; either from sleep, or into suspicion of what I’m up to. I can feel your breath on my face now, how warm it is in the morning air. The rising and fall of your chest is so slight (are you <em>really</em> asleep?).</p><p><em>I never realised how sad and pale my life was until I saw yours</em>, I think, although I don’t say it aloud. <em>I didn’t realise I was barely breathing</em>. I’d quite like to kiss you awake – just the briefest press of lips against your forehead – but I also don’t want to disturb you, so ultimately decide to leave you alone and tiptoe silently out the bed and into the hallway instead. I need a shower but would rather wait to have one with you, so in the end just brew a coffee then ferry it upstairs where I can listen to the news without making too much noise. The room there is a renovated attic – very light and airy with sage green walls and a stucco ceiling – and technically counts as ‘my’ bedroom due to an early understanding that if we were going to live together without driving each other homicidal then I’d need some private space to call my own. I was expecting you to sulk about it, but you’ve turned out to be surprisingly respectful and even make a point of not going in without permission (or at least you <em>pretend</em> to…I guess it’s inevitable you start poking about in it on the rare occasions we’re not in the house together). The original plan was for me to have it as a kind of base to sleep in a few nights a week while spending the rest of the time with you in the main bedroom. Only its’s never worked out that way, and by now the bed is covered in discarded books and clothes while the room itself has been transformed into a glorified man cave which, depending on my mood, I’ll either use as a study, a makeshift den, or just as storage to dump the overspill of belongings that won’t fit in anywhere else. I still like it though. The French windows have a breath-taking view of the city and it always feels secluded and peaceful, as well as being comfortably messy in a way that the rest of the house never is. In fact if I’m honest its clutter is also part of its appeal. Your personality is so consuming that it’s managed to stamp itself on each piece of décor and design choice in every room but this one, and I like the sense of holding onto something that’s completely immune to your influence.</p><p>I now take a sip of coffee then begin to fiddle absent-mindedly with the radio, which is very old and clunky and resembles something from a 1950s sitcom. It’s the type of radio a man with a bowler hat and a newspaper would listen to before strolling past his picket fence, but that was mainly why I wanted it at all because of how it fit with the room’s central feature: namely the numerous scraps of American paraphernalia which I’ve bought over the months to ward off bouts of homesickness. The radio itself is kind of neat, but admittedly the rest is of a tasteless, kitsch variety that’s been scavenged from tourist shops and flea markets. It’s a synthetic, stereotyped view of what America is: Route 69 badges, Stars and Stripes buttons, even a tiny Mount Rushmore clumsily modelled from plaster of Paris, all jumbled together without any particular care owing to the way the items weren’t chosen out of love of themselves but rather for the patchwork nostalgia of what they represent. I’ve made sure none of these little junky tokens are on prominent display, but I know you’ve detected them anyway because of how your eyes inevitably drift in their direction whenever you’re in the room. With someone else I’d claim I’d bought them ironically, but there’s no point trying that with you because you understand me well enough to know it’s not true. Sometimes I wonder what you think when you see them, yet it’s impossible to ask because ‘<em>I want to go home</em>’ is something I can’t ever say to you – and even if I did, you’d wilfully misunderstand. As far as you’re concerned my home is wherever you are, so a yearning for America while you’re in Europe is beyond your ability to empathise with. In this respect <em>home</em> is no longer a place, but more like a moment in time: a separate snatch of existence with a different version of myself who lives in it. <em>The past is a foreign country</em>, I think forlornly. <em>They do things differently there</em>.</p><p>I now sigh a bit then turn round to retrieve my cup before jumping so sharply I almost drop it when I catch sight of a long silhouette in the doorway. You’ll often do this: just stand and watch without me even realising you’re there. It’s annoying – and to be honest, borderline creepy – but I’ve never been able to make you stop.</p><p>You take a few steps forward then give a faint smile at the awareness of getting caught in the act. “How are you feeling today?” you ask.</p><p>I clear my throat, partly annoyed and partly embarrassed, then mutter something about being “fine” from over the top of the cup. This is a fairly automatic response by now. In fact it’s so automatic it borders on meaningless because I’ll tend to just blurt it out without thinking, regardless of whether or not it’s true. Possibly I could print it on a shirt….possibly have an entire uniform made, including buttons and a baseball cap, just to emphasise how extremely fucking fine everything is.</p><p>You stare at me for a few seconds; God knows if you’re actually buying it. “Good,” is all you say. I smile rather vaguely and you stare a bit longer then abruptly nod towards the bookshelf and add: “That’s new.”</p><p>It’s a statement, not a question, and I know without looking exactly what you’re referring to: a small china dish hand-painted with trees and a splash of stretching blue sky. It’s also very ugly and is clearly something I didn’t buy for its artistic merit (something which <em>nobody</em> would buy), but rather because it reminded me of the woods by my old house and in a land of starched fields and sweltering sun was a tangible grasp at home. Sometimes I wish you weren’t so observant. It’s hardly your fault, but it’s a trait I dislike because of how hard it can become to keep anything back for myself.</p><p>I now take a quick glance to see if you’re still looking (you are). “Hmmm,” I say, deliberately vague like I’d forgotten it was there. “Yeah it is. Sort of.” There’s a pause: you’re obviously waiting to hear where I got it from. Also, no doubt, <em>why</em> I felt compelled to buy such an obvious piece of shit, despite the fact you must surely already know.</p><p>“So, um, do you want a shower?” I add instead to distract you. “I was waiting until you got up.”</p><p>You make a humming noise then prowl straight past me to the bookcase to inspect the dish. Internally I can feel myself cringe. “Interesting painting technique,” you say. There’s an obvious hint of sarcasm; it’s like you’re trying not to but just can’t help yourself. “I wouldn’t have thought it was your taste at all.”</p><p>This time I just shrug then follow it up with a silent sip of coffee. I don’t really know what to say and for a few seconds it seems like an expression of genuine sadness flickers across your face, as if you’re disappointed that I won’t confide in you. Then the moment’s passed so fast it feels like I must have imagined it as you replace the dish on the shelf and turn round again like nothing’s happened.  </p><p>“A shower is an excellent suggestion,” you say. “Not least because I have some new hair tonic I want to try.”</p><p>You give me a quick glance as you say this and I promptly start to smirk because I know it’s coded acknowledgement of how I’ve managed to turn washing your hair into my own exclusive job. I’m not even sure how the hell it happened, only that I really like doing it – despite the fact I’ll never let you wash mine (mainly on the grounds that taking turns to clean each other feels like some sort of weird allogrooming ritual…a bit like a pair of chimpanzees). It’s pretty ironic though, because of the two of us I’m definitely the one more in need of help. My own hair is shit: far more demanding than yours is, and requiring infinitely greater attention and maintenance before it can remotely be convinced to behave itself. At the thought of this I reflexively run my hands through it and frown.</p><p>You watch me with obvious amusement. “Yes, it’s getting quite long.”</p><p>“I know,” I say. I sound a bit tragic. “It seems like no time since I last had it cut. It just….it just <em>grows</em>.”</p><p>“Indeed it does,” you reply, completely straight-faced. “It’s hair. Its options for activity are somewhat limited.”</p><p>Right on cue a few strands of it tumble into my eyes: I frown even harder then twist my mouth up to blow it away. The bastard stuff…it’s like it’s self-aware. “I should just shave it off,” I announce. I say this rather spitefully, almost as if I think it’s listening. “Especially now the weather’s so hot.”</p><p>“You should not,” you say firmly. “I like your hair.”</p><p>I now avert the frown in your direction and the movement causes my hair to sway perilously close to my eyes again. <em>Go on you bastard</em>, I tell it silently. <em>I fucking dare you</em>. A few strands tumble gleefully forward and I give it a bad-tempered swipe then turn round to face you again. “You like <em>playing</em> with it,” I say.</p><p>Of course there’s no way you’ll ever admit to something so un-intellectual as playing with someone else’s hair, so just stand there staring at me with a quizzical expression on your face like I’m being deliberately dumb. It’s still true though, because you do: you stroke it and pat it, and if you come across a particularly springy piece then you’ll stop what you’re doing and wind it round your finger. Unfortunately what all this playing <em>also</em> means is that my hair will probably stay how it is, because while it’s not like you can physically stop me cutting it I’m not sure I could tolerate your look of disappointment when you saw it had gone. Perhaps I could just do it a little shorter each time and wean you off it slowly?</p><p>You take another step forward. “Are you listening?” you say. “I don’t think you should shave it off.”</p><p>You’re repeating yourself now because you think I’m not paying attention; you think I’m being vague. That isn’t the reason though, at least not entirely. What’s <em>actually</em> happened is that the conversation has managed to trigger a memory from a few months ago – one of our first really serious arguments – and while I’d prefer to ignore it the thought has begun tugging at my consciousness like tiny claws, urging me to notice and pay attention. It happened shortly after we first moved in and were both still in the long, limping tussle of adapting our living space to accommodate someone else; a particularly difficult task for two fundamental loners who were simultaneously yet uncomfortably fixated with the other person. We’d been getting on each other’s nerves all evening so the atmosphere was already strained, and I remember pausing from whatever I was doing and wondering out loud if I’d ever get a tattoo. It wasn’t even a statement of intent – just a random idea prompted by a book I’d been reading – but it made you flinch. You actually did; I saw you. Then there was a tense silence before you stood up and prowled right up behind me so you could wrap your arms around my chest. It felt constraining rather than affectionate but when I tried to pull away you wouldn’t let me. Instead you’d just tightened your grip then run your palm from my shoulder to waist and back up again, very slow and precise in a way that was unmistakably possessive. <em>All this belongs to me</em>, you’d replied. <em>And I absolutely will not let you alter it without permission</em>.</p><p>As soon as I heard you say that I’d caught my breath. It was one of those rare times of being literally speechless and I remember the way my pulse had started throbbing in my ears before I’d snapped back to life again and gone completely ballistic. I was so shocked and angry – and, underneath it all, faintly disturbed – that I could barely get the words out. <em>Have you lost your mind?</em> I’d yelled. <em>Don’t ever say that to me again.</em> <em>Don’t even think it</em>.</p><p><em>But I do think it</em>, you’d replied. <em>I think it all the time</em>. You weren’t remotely ashamed or contrite but even you must have realised you’d gone too far because you’ve never mentioned it since. Nevertheless, the memory is an unsettling one. How could I have forgotten it? I suppose I must have done it on purpose – just one of countless examples of how carefully I curate my mind to stitch together a version of you that I want to exist rather than the reality of what’s actually there. I bury such thoughts every single day, one after the other, without ever really acknowledging the way half of them wind up buried alive. Because of course it begs the inevitable question of what <em>would</em> you do if I shaved my head? Your ‘property’ – altered without permission? It bothers me how uncomfortable I feel with the idea of finding out.</p><p>I must have got a vacant look on my face (you once described it as ‘the shutters coming down’) because you now walk over and give my hair an affectionate ruffle. “Shave it if you want to,” you say. “I confess I prefer it like this, but your features are so good you could easily tolerate something harsher.”</p><p>Once again I’m struck an eerie sense of you being able to read my mind – a realisation that’s quickly followed by annoyance at how your instinct is to frame the problem in terms of your own preferences rather than mine. After all, the implication is that if you didn’t think I’d still look okay you’d be far less happy about it. Ideally you’d be saying: ‘<em>Yes, by all means hack it off. It’ll look like complete shit, but it’s your hair: I shall simply have to offend my eyes with the sight of your hideous naked scalp.</em>’ In fact I’m so preoccupied with this new source of grievance that it actually takes me a few moments to realise the way your palm is still continuing to curl round the back of my skull. I pull an irritated face at you then attempt to pull myself free.</p><p>“Stop it,” I say.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<em>That</em>. You’re touching my head again: you do it all the time.”</p><p>“Do I?” you reply, very placid and patient. “I wasn’t fully aware. Interesting...” You say this as if it actually is: honestly, it sometimes feels like there’s no limit to the weird crap you’ll decide to take an interest in. I stare at you accusingly, still waiting for an explanation, and you catch my eye then give an elegant little shrug. “It’s because it houses your mind, I suppose. Such a beautifully intricate mind Will – how fiercely and brightly it burns. Your empathy is based in there: your imagination too. And they’re both so artistic in their own way.”</p><p>“Oh shut up,” I say. “They’re not.” I’m smiling while I say it though. Your compliments are always so absurd it’s hard <em>not</em> to smile at them. They’re also carefully timed, and I’ve noticed you’ll often do it on purpose to rouse me out of whatever bad mood I’ve managed to stumble into.</p><p>“But they are.” You smile a bit yourself then slowly trace your finger across my forehead. “After all, why shouldn’t they be? There so are many different modes for art. Painting, poetry, sculpture, food…so many ways to assume the perspective of an artist. Or even, one might say, to consume it.” Your faint smile grows fractionally broader and I have to resist an urge to groan out loud. “<em>Consume</em>: yes, I suppose one might say that. But as it is, I suspect that you are destined to be my greatest possible masterpiece. Your empathy for example: I like it very much. Of course, it is often the case that one is drawn to a partner possessing traits which are disowned in oneself. As the saying goes ‘<em>love is a glass which makes even a monster appear fascinating’. </em>I generally lack empathy myself, yet I find myself wanting to remedy that in order to understand you better.”</p><p>“Do you?” I ask sceptically. Briefly I fall silent as I try to imagine it: my own maladjusted excess of humanity – empathetic and imaginative to a disturbingly dysfunctional degree – and how it often seems submerged by your inscrutable ability to both conceal and showcase your own moral vacuum.</p><p>“I do,” you say. “My failures to empathise obstruct my relationship with you. Therefore I attempt to improve my capacity.”</p><p>Your tone is very solemn and I can’t help feeling touched by how earnest you seem, despite the fact (as is typical with you) that it’s impossible to tell whether you really mean it. But at least you’re trying to sound sincere and the obvious attempt to make peace creates a sharp pang of shame at my own previous bad temper. In fact you seem to have borne the brunt of my various moods since the first day we met, yet even now you never show any signs of growing tired of it.</p><p>I reach out myself then give you an affectionate squeeze on the wrist. “Well I’m onto you now,” I say lightly. “I’ll be looking out for it.”</p><p>“As you should.”</p><p>“I might start grading your attempts.”</p><p> “Yes, why not?” you say with amusement. “It’s your area of expertise after all.”</p><p>The image of you as a student – <em>any</em> kind of student – is inherently ridiculous and I feel my lips start to twitch at the thought of it. You smile back at me and suddenly it feels easy to pretend that everything’s relaxed and happy again as you take hold of my hand and tug me towards the bathroom (me laughing and protesting the entire time, and you refusing to let go while looking like you’re trying not to laugh yourself). Once there we pile into the shower and you obediently stand very still with your neck bent so I can wash your hair with the tonic you’ve bought (which, no matter what you say, is clearly just glorified shampoo). It smells deliciously of cedar and bergamot and I massage it into your scalp while delivering a stern lecture about wasting money on over-priced goo, followed with another equally stern sermon on needing a haircut yourself. You nod and smile, silently absorbing the criticism, and I can’t help smiling too because your patience always has an inherent charm to it. It’s as I can be as demanding as I like with you and you’ll almost never push back. Partly I think it’s because you enjoy the novelty of someone who not only isn’t afraid of you but refuses to constantly kiss your ass; although from the few times you’ve mentioned it, I get the impression you also just find my bluntness rather engaging (either that, or you have selective tolerance for me being a rude little shit). Even so it’s a lethal form of distinction, because I don’t know anyone who could get away with saying even half the things to you that I can. </p><p>When I’m done I wrap my arms around your chest then prop my cheek between your shoulder blades and close my eyes. It’s so warm and humid it’s tempting to just doze off, but it’s clear you’ve got other ideas from the way you spin me round almost straight away then take hold of my waist. Luckily, I have enough experience by now to spot this as a warning sign that you’re about to pick me up, so quickly twist out of reach before I end up in a bridal lift or something equally horrific. To be honest your enthusiasm for carrying me is only matched by my annoyance whenever it happens, but we finally manage to reach a kind of comprise where I’m facing you with my legs hooked round your back and can preserve a few shreds of dignity while you take me through to the bedroom (at which point romanticism abruptly terminates, because no matter how tenderly you carry me you’ll always wind up dropping me on the bed like I’m a ton of bricks). On this occasion I hit the mattress with enough force to bounce up and down a few times and you smirk a bit then stretch yourself out next to me so you can gaze straight into my eyes in a soulful way that never fails to be endearing. We can often be very rough with each other during sex in a way that mirrors temperature extremes: from cold (you – coolly dominant and controlling) to hot (me – fiery with emotion, very volatile and scrappy). But then there are also languid, luxurious times like this when neither of us want to be drama queens and it’s simply a process of touching and loving and being together. Right on cue you now raise your eyebrows, which is your way of saying ‘<em>What do you want to do?</em>’ and I consider for a few seconds before letting myself go very limp and boneless, which is my way of replying ‘<em>I can’t really be bothered – you sort it out</em>.’</p><p>Fortunately you’re not as lazy as I am, which means I get to loll about on the bed while you retrieve the lube and get things ready and I just lie there with my eyes closed and order you about. The blasé act is essentially just that though – an act. The shower was little more than extended foreplay and I’m already so turned on my stomach is glistening from where I’ve started to leak pre-come all over myself. It’s obvious how desperate I am; I don’t know why I sometimes find it so difficult to just admit it.</p><p>“Look at you,” you say fondly. I arch my back a bit, followed with a small moaning noise as you lick away a few stray drops of water from my throat. You smile at the sound of it then kiss my hipbone before taking hold of my hand to squeeze some lube into it. “Get yourself ready for me,” you add. “And take your time, please – do it slowly. I want to watch you.”</p><p>Until recently I was far too self-conscious for this and would’ve said no (or, more specifically, <em>No way, are you kidding me…do it your goddamn self</em>). Not anymore though. Now I can lie in front of you while you hold my legs apart and finger myself ecstatically without giving a single solitary shit over how it might look. To be fair it probably looks okay judging from the rapt expression on your face whenever it happens, but as much as it makes me happy to make <em>you</em> happy, right now I’ve decided I’m in the mood for something different. So instead I tug you down next to me on the bed, then make you lie close enough for me to curl my palm around our cocks until they’re tightly pressed together and I can jerk us both off at the same time. We’ll do this fairly often in these softer moments and it’s always so intimate whenever it happens: gazing into each other’s eyes, your legs curled tightly round mine, our hips always seeming to slot together like they were made to fit. I give a gasping noise at the thought of it then tilt my head forward to kiss you – licking into your mouth, trying to swallow the sounds you’re making – before curling my free hand round the back of your neck as we rock our bodies against each other. Your skin feels so hot and damp pressed beside mine. There’s sweat beading at my hairline and the hollow of my throat and so you swipe it away with your tongue, building up momentum the entire time as an invitation for my body to move along with yours. The soft panting sounds I’m making seem surprisingly loud in the silent room, but they’re building with every slide of your tongue, each scrape of your teeth and, most of all, from the hard thick length of your cock as it thrusts against mine over and over again. As I speed up the pace you gasp yourself then drag your mouth down my sweat-damp neck, cradling my head while I bury my face in your shoulder and murmur your name into your skin. We’ve built up such a perfect rhythm by now: tangled up, locked tight together, making sure we never stop moving until I finally tense then give a sharp cry, tipping my head back as the thrusts go wild and messy and I feel a hot wetness spreading over my cock that isn’t just my own.</p><p>When it’s finally over I reach up to cup your cheek with my clean hand as you smile at me then lean into the touch. You look so peaceful and it makes me sad to think that probably no one else in your whole life has ever touched you this way: not from fear or appeasement, but simply because they love you. This is admittedly a pointless regret to have because there’s nothing I can do about it – and it’s not like you’d ever care about it yourself. Even so, the lack of love for you still feels poignant.</p><p>Too much emotion is always guaranteed to make me uncomfortable, so it doesn’t take long for me to realise I can’t stand feeling sorry for you anymore and wriggle out from underneath you instead so I can get out of bed to find something to wipe my hand with. There’s a slippery trail along my thigh from where your come has got all over me, which is…awkward (not least because I can guess the way you’ll currently be staring at it and looking immensely pleased with yourself). Then I stretch a bit before hurriedly ducking across the room to draw the curtains, because I’ve just realised that it’s late enough for other people to be up and I’ve got enough problems without the neighbours seeing me prancing around butt naked with mad sex hair. In this respect the neighbour’s opinions are a constant source of mortification because the walls in this building are <em>thin. </em>I mean they really are: thin enough for me to hear their television, and therefore almost certainly thin enough for them to hear us having sex. It’s a recurrent phobia of mine that makes it hard not to blush when I see them, and I now pick up my phone at the thought of it and start scrolling through the news in a rather manic attempt to distract myself. Only this doesn’t make me feel better either, because a quick glance confirms that there’s been yet another killing from <em>Il Macellaio</em> – the second in as many weeks.</p><p>“What’s the matter?” you ask. Wordlessly I hold up the phone and you give an eerie little smile as your eyes flick across the screen. “He’s very industrious isn’t he?” you add after a pause. “A busy boy.”</p><p>“Yeah, <em>busy</em>,” I say bitterly. “Which means even more police.”</p><p>“Oh yes,” you reply. “Naturally there will be more police.” You sound as if you’re completely out of fucks to give about this, and once again I feel my tattered nerves start to fray even further. “Not that it’s doing them much good,” you add, gesturing towards the phone again. “They seem to have very little idea of how to properly secure a crime scene.”</p><p>“Hmm, yeah, they should have cleared the crowd.” I squint closer at the picture myself, critically surveying the sea of faces. “You know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in there.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“These guys always insert themselves into the investigation.” I’m expecting you to agree but there’s no response, and after a few seconds of waiting I glance up to look at you. The room is very shadowy now I’ve drawn the curtains but there’s a shaft of light across your face so all I can really see are your eyes.</p><p>“<em>I</em> didn’t,” you say.</p><p>There’s a strained pause: internally I can feel myself wince. You’ll do this on purpose every so often to make me uncomfortable – toss these little verbal grenades into the conversation as a way of forcing me to remember the entirety of you and what you represent. In turn I know exactly <em>why</em> you do it, because my levels of denial are so ingrained it’s like there’s huge parts of our lives that I still pretend didn’t happen. You once told me I’d made cognitive dissonance into an art form and it was obvious you weren’t entirely joking. So while I dislike these ambushes it’s not like I’m ever surprised by them. After all, it was inevitable you’d exploit my discomfort once you’d detected it and of course you do (mercilessly), a bit like pressing down against a bruise.</p><p>“Hardly,” I now reply. “You <em>were</em> the investigation.” Then I grit my teeth and replace my phone on the windowsill, overly slow and cautious like it’s something fragile that’s prone to break. I’m doing my best to sound casual but I’m not sure how convincing it is.</p><p>“Yes,” you say. “But not by...design.” In the gloom I can see your eyes flash again. “I suppose one might say that I inserted myself into you.”</p><p>“Is that supposed to be funny?” I snap. “Because it’s not.”</p><p>You stare at me for a few seconds, very Sphinxy and inscrutable, before finally seeming to relent and holding out a hand in silent invitation to come and join you on the bed. To be honest it’s tempting just to tell you to fuck off but after a bit of huffing I still walk over anyway, perching awkwardly next to you on the mattress and then tugging the sheet across my shoulders as a makeshift robe.</p><p>“So what do you think?” you say. You’re smiling again, although it seems more to yourself than to me – rather like you’re enjoying some private joke.</p><p>“About what?” You gesture towards my phone, still glowing gloomily from its place on the windowsill, and I feel my eyebrows arrange themselves into an even deeper frown than before. “Nothing,” I add. “I don’t care.”</p><p>“Mmm, yes; you <em>say</em> that, yet the situation clearly fascinates you.” Idly you start to stroke your finger up and down my arm, very slow and precise. “You miss it don’t you?”</p><p>“Miss what?” I ask, even though I already know. My voice is so terse and it makes me cringe in spite of myself. Sometimes I hate the way I sound when I speak to you: a wailing siren of discontent. Of course it’s impossible you haven’t noticed yet you still persist with it anyway, cool and ruthless without missing a beat.</p><p>“The hunt,” you say crisply. “The thrill of the chase: leading Jack Crawford’s pack.”</p><p>At this point I officially give up and just shrug without speaking, because this is a <em>really</em> difficult question to answer. It’s also something I still haven’t fully reconciled with myself – and it’s certainly not something I’m ready to be interrogated over by you. “Not exactly,” I reply. Then I realise how dismissive this might sound so catch hold of your hand and give it a press. “At least – not enough to regret leaving it behind.”</p><p>This makes you smile before reaching up to brush a strand of hair out my eyes. “Well, at the very least I suppose your pursuit of <em>me</em> has ended in success,” you say. “I hope that’s been a degree of consolation for you. I am your most notable trophy.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I say wryly “I guess you are. Got you good, didn’t I?”</p><p>“Not that I’m complaining of course: I enjoy the sense of you trying to work me out. Because you’re still doing it, aren’t you Will? Even now.”</p><p>This is so absurdly hypocritical I can’t help laughing at it. “Yeah, it must be really annoying. Of course <em>you’d</em> never do the same, would you?”</p><p>“Attempt to make sense of you?” you reply with another smile. “No, I’ve never stopped doing that. It is my life’s work.”</p><p>“Then maybe we should call a ceasefire.”</p><p>“Oh no,” you say leisurely. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly agree to that. Besides, even if I <em>was </em>forced to concede an armistice then I’d simply continue my analysis in private. Call it a habit: a custom acquired from all the years I spent without you.”</p><p>I understand what you mean, yet there’s always something about references to past affection that I find hard to process. “Oh yeah?” I ask, attempting to be flippant to disguise how emotional I suddenly feel. “Are you actually saying you <em>missed</em> me?”</p><p>“Of course,” you reply. “I’m only human.” You say this last part grudgingly, as if it pains you to admit it. “You were haunting me the entire time. I went from having all of you to having none of you. At least…not exactly <em>none</em>. I made sure you stayed with me anyway.”</p><p>I know this is meant as a compliment but it actually sounds vaguely sinister; as if there was a version of me in your head all those years that was being trapped there against its will. Although fundamentally I suppose that <em>was</em> what happened…at least I can’t fault your honesty.</p><p>“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” I tell you. “So you can obsess over me out loud if you really want to. Anyway, I did the same – when I thought you weren’t coming back.” You start to smile again and I smile too then tap my finger to the side of my temple. “I made my own version of you.”</p><p>“Yes, I remember you telling me.”</p><p>“Although it sounds like your version of <em>me</em> was a lot easier to manage than my version of <em>you</em>.” I roll my eyes at you then reach out to take hold of your hand again. “I have to be honest – you didn’t behave yourself very well.”</p><p>“No doubt,” you say. You’re really smiling now: it’s obvious the thought of this pleases you. “But don’t believe for a moment that my own mental image was easy to control. You were a constant source of aggravation.”</p><p>I start to laugh, then on an impulse bend down to press a kiss against your forehead. I wish it could be like this more often: the spectre of the past losing its power to devastate and melting into something cloudy and indistinct that’s harmless enough to smile over. I’ve often thought how much easier things might become if we just sat down one day and worked our way through all the unspoken issues, yet the task seems so overwhelming it’s hard to know where we’d even begin. Nevertheless the awareness of it – of how much more peaceful we could be – is still enough to cause a new pang of guilt at the way I’ve been acting towards you in the past few weeks. The kiss is an admission of this, but also an apology; a silent promise to try and do better.</p><p>“<em>Ti amo</em>,” I murmur against your skin. “I want to be with you. I want this to work.”</p><p>You don’t reply immediately and instead just gently stroke the back of my neck with your thumb. The room is so still and quiet; if I listen hard enough I feel as if I could hear your heartbeat. “<em>Ti amo anch'io</em>,” you say eventually. “<em>Ti amo tanto</em>. Come back to bed, Will. Let me pay this beautiful body the attention it deserves.”</p><p>Right on cue my phone emits a loud beep and despite the sincerity of the moment I can’t help laughing again at the comically awful timing. “Hang on,” I tell you. “Let me turn that off.”</p><p>As I move back towards the window you let out a quick sigh: a sort of irritated blast of air through your teeth. “It’s <em>early</em>,” you say. “Who’s sending you messages at this time?”</p><p>You sound jealous. Of course you do: you’ve never been able to stand even a shred of my attention going towards anyone except you. “No one,” I reply without turning round. “Relax. It’s just a news app.”</p><p>“News for what?”</p><p>As it happens ‘it’ is updates for the <em>Il Macellaio</em> case, but after my earlier denials it feels far too hypocritical to admit this. I perform an awkward little shuffle with my feet without fully meaning to. “It’s nothing,” I say. “I just didn’t change the settings when I installed…” Then I pick up the phone and promptly feel the words shrivel and fade into utter silence as I finally see what’s on the screen.</p><p>“What is it?” you say sharply. “Will? What’s the matter?”</p><p>I want to tell you – I really do – but in that moment the enormity of it seems to defy explanation. In fact I can hardly believe it’s real. It’s as if it must be some kind of malevolent practical joke: a cosmic piece of farce that we can laugh about later as I repeat over and over ‘<em>I can’t believe I fell for that!’</em> And I want you to say it’s not true and it hasn’t happened, so the final seconds before you find out feel like the last refuge of denial before it rips through into reality. I want those seconds to last. Then I draw in a breath, let it out again, and finally abandon attempts to explain and simply hold up the phone again so you can see for yourself.</p><p>Jack looks older in the photo. Far older than I remember him, as if the toll of the last few years has etched itself across his face: lots of fine lines, grey hairs, and a forehead as etched and corrugated as iron. He looks tired and careworn, but it’s not like any of that is relevant – it’s not relevant at all. It’s just a last futile grab at distraction before the truth of it hits and I can play-pretend that his appearance matters more than the words beneath the photo. But it’s the words which are important; only the words that matter. Because it’s the words which are telling me, in starkly merciless capitals, that the scenario I’ve been dreading all along is just about poised to come true: <em>FBI EXPERT FLIES TO ITALY TO JOIN THE HUNT FOR IL MACELLAIO.</em></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>For the next few moments, it’s just…nothing. Just silence. Just you, eerily fixed and motionless, and me, glancing numbly from my phone to you and back again, waiting to hear what you’re going to say. If I’m honest I think you’re surprised by it. It’s not as if you’re alarmed or anything – not like I am – but I think it’s also fair to assume that of all the news in all the world, the idea that Jack would really come to Italy was low down your list of expectations. The threat of it has hovered over me for a while now, but I know you never found it especially likely or truly believed it would happen. Only it’s turned out that it is – and it has. I wonder how troubling it really is for you to have your predictions proved wrong? My life’s been such an endless stretch of shocks and thwarted expectations that I’m probably better insulated than you are; primed from birth for the proverbial slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. But then your fearlessness also gives you have an advantage I don’t have, and which is why I’m threatened but unsurprised, and you’re surprised yet supremely poised and calculating.</p><p>“This is not the right occasion to discuss it,” you say finally. “Get dressed.” I open my mouth to protest and you hold up your hand in a request for silence. “I’m going to make you breakfast,” you add. “And you are going to eat it, even if I have to handfeed you myself. And then, but <em>only</em> then, we can talk about it further – and decide what you want to do.”</p><p>I suppose this is a reasonable plan. It’s very calm and measured after all; very typical of you. But as the morning drags on it’s clear that the calmness was only skin-deep because what follows soon after is one of the worst arguments we’ve ever had. I know that it’s bad because of the quiet intensity of it, which is always a sign of severity with us. Not performative yelling (me) or theatrical posturing (you), but rather the kind of coldly brutal intensity that comes from a mutual conviction that the other person is wrong, matched only by an equally mutual reluctance to even consider backing down. In fact you’re incredibly stern and inflexible from the offset, and it makes me realise how long it is since I last saw that ruthless, arrogant side of you on full display. To be honest, I think I’d forgotten how intimidating it can be.</p><p>“This isn’t an issue,” I finally tell you through gritted teeth. “Why are you making it into an issue? It’s simple. <em>We leave</em>. We leave right now.”</p><p>You stare at me for a few seconds and I repeat a variation of this suggestion for what feels like the twentieth time; which means you have to reply (also for the twentieth time): “And go where?”</p><p>“Anywhere!” I snap. “There are 195 countries in the world. It’s actually pretty easy: all we have to do is pick one Jack isn’t in.”</p><p>Sarcasm almost never works on you and of course this time is no different. Your face is as smooth and hard as a slab of marble: I can almost see the words smash against it before dropping to the ground like tiny useless missiles. “So what was all that about before?” I add bitterly. “You said we could leave if I wanted to. And now I <em>do</em> want to, and you won’t go.”</p><p>The implication is obvious: that you were only telling me what you thought I wanted to hear without having any intention of acting on it. In other words, that you were lying to me – which is something you promised you’d never do. But if sarcasm is futile then calling you out on your hypocrisy is equally pointless, and even as I’m speaking I catch myself wondering why I bother. Why <em>do</em> I bother? It’s like that Einstein quote: <em>The definition of </em><em>insanity</em><em> is </em><em>doing</em><em> the </em><em>same thing</em><em> over and over again but </em><em>expecting different</em><em> results. </em>Maybe I really am as crazy as everyone always thought.</p><p>As I watch you seem to bristle slightly before snapping your head bolt upright and giving me an icy stare. “I meant what I said,” you reply. Your tone is exceptionally cool and cutting. An image of ice-cubes promptly comes to mind, or even icebergs – glacial and lethal. “But at the time the suggestion was purely hypothetical. Now it is literal. And better options present themselves.”</p><p>“There is <em>no better option</em>.” My own voice was grating out before, scraping through my throat like rusted metal. Now it’s more of a hiss, as if the anger and frustration are frothing into boiling point then dissolving once they hit the air. For a few seconds I remember your earlier words – ‘<em>we can talk about it further and decide what you want to do’ </em>– and realise what a huge red flag they were in suggesting your own mind was already made up. “He caught you the last time he was here,” I add ominously. “There’s nothing to stop him doing it again.”</p><p>Your own posture is fairly calm but I can tell I’ve annoyed you from the way the muscles round your jaw have started to quilt. It’s a major tell of yours: probably too subtle for most people to pick up on, but something that’s always extremely obvious to me. Yet it never occurs to me to back down, and despite everything I can’t help grasping some small consolation at how I’m no longer afraid of what could happen if I actually provoked you into losing your temper.</p><p>“He did not <em>catch</em> me,” you say now. Your spine has gone completely rigid, the same way a cat’s does when it’s angry. “You appear to be remembering a different version of events.”</p><p>“It was close enough.” I suppose this isn’t <em>quite</em> what happened, but I’m far past the point of caring. After all, it’s not like you ever have two shits to give about the facts when they don’t suit your particular purpose. “Staying here now…” I add in a deliberately menacing way. “Is <em>insane</em>.”</p><p>“And yet he knows <em>you’re</em> here,” you snap back. “Aren’t you concerned it would look a little suspicious if you fled the scene the moment he arrives?”</p><p>Unbelievably I’d somehow managed to forget about this and the reminder is enough to make me falter before catching my lip between my teeth. You’re watching me the whole time and for a second it looks like you might be about to smile. “Yes, that’s somewhat backfired hasn’t it? Yet you still insisted on keeping up the correspondence. I’m afraid you can hardly blame me for this particular predicament.”</p><p>It’s unusual for you to be so obviously bitchy – in happier circumstances it might actually be funny. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. My voice is starting to rise and with an effort I force myself to lower it again and try to speak more calmly. “I explained why I was writing to him. I had a good reason.”</p><p>You lean back in your chair then fix me with another one of your more withering stares (I say ‘one’ because you actually have a whole collection of these, adapted for every conceivable occasion). “Yes, I’m sure it was a very sensible precaution,” you reply crisply. “Until it wasn’t.”</p><p>You look incredibly smug as you say this and I can feel myself gripped by a brief, childish urge to tell you to fuck off. I content myself with just frowning at you instead before falling silent as I try to run a few mental calculations about whether going AWOL really would draw unnecessary attention. After all, Jack knows I’m in Florence but he doesn’t know exactly <em>where</em> – he certainly doesn’t have my address. “Yeah, well, I suppose I could hang on for a few weeks while he’s here,” I eventually reply. “And <em>you</em> could leave.”</p><p>As I watch I can see your eyes start to narrow. “I am not going anywhere without you,” you say firmly.</p><p>This makes me sigh out loud, mostly because I knew it’s what your answer would be before I’d even finished suggesting it. Your stubbornness in the face of such a simple solution is frustrating, although I suppose I can’t really blame you. After all, I wouldn’t go anywhere without you either.</p><p>“Okay, then we leave together,” I say. My tone has now shifted to something overly bright and ingratiating: a parent trying to convince a child to accept a vegetable that’s unwanted but ultimately good for them. “Jack will probably email me; he’ll ask to meet for a coffee or something. I’ll drive over, I’ll come back. Simple.”</p><p>“Only it is <em>not</em> so simple,” you say. “You know that as well as I do. Jack will expect you to assist. He’ll want you to investigate with him.”</p><p>“So? I tell him no.”</p><p>“<em>Would</em> you?” you reply. “Are you sure about that Will? Because I’m afraid I can’t quite share your confidence on that score. You’ve always struggled to say no to Jack. And despite your constant attempts to deny it, your interest in the case is obvious. I doubt he would have to work very hard to convince you.”</p><p>You sound very sure of yourself and I find the certainty with which you’re claiming to know my preferences better than I do enormously irritating. Were you always as bad as this? God knows how you lasted so long as a therapist if so – surely most of your patients must’ve wanted to kill you at one point or another in response to such epic complacency?</p><p>“I am <em>not</em> getting roped into working with Jack,” I say angrily. “Absolutely not. No way.”</p><p>“Not even if he brings his team with him? Are you certain that wouldn’t appeal to you?” You pause then give one of your eerie little smiles. “Just like old times."</p><p>“It’s irrelevant. <em>I don’t care</em>. Why can’t you understand that?”</p><p>“I suppose I can try to,” you reply. “It’s interesting, isn’t it Will – like our little exercise in empathy from earlier. But yes, I can try to see it from your perspective if you’ll extend the same courtesy and understand it from mine.” You wait a few moments and then lean forward in your chair in a vaguely threatening way. “Namely my <em>very</em> deep aversion to running away from Jack Crawford.”</p><p>As soon as you say that I bring my palm down flat on the table. It’s the most obvious sign of anger I’ve made so far and as I watch your eyes slowly track down to my hand then back up to my face again. I have a sudden, uncomfortable feeling that you might actually be enjoying it. You rarely show any emotion yourself, but there’s no denying how oddly fascinated you are with other peoples – especially (God help me) mine.</p><p>“For Christ’s <em>sake</em>,” I say. “Just for once – <em>just this one time</em> – can you not turn everything into some twisted intellectual game? I don’t care about whatever grudge you’ve got against Jack: being here the same time as him is a risk. It’s a <em>horrendous</em> risk. And it’s totally unnecessary.”</p><p>“No Will,” you reply, in the same steely way as before. “Wrong on both counts. It is a calculated risk; and debatably very necessary.”</p><p>This time I suck all my breath into an angry exhale and ferment it for a few furious seconds before releasing it again in a long, loud sigh. This, of course, was inevitable – I was naïve to expect anything else – because I know you well enough by now to understand that it’s your pride which makes it necessary. Pride, superiority, and an unfailing sense in your own ability to maintain the upper hand. It’s likely there’s an element of revenge in it as well…no doubt you’ve been planning how to find an opportunity to take him out as soon as you saw the news page.</p><p>You’ve been watching my face very carefully and when you speak again it’s obvious that you’ve guessed what I’m thinking. “Having him here is an open invitation,” you add in confirmation. “Removing Jack means removing a very significant obstacle. As far as law enforcement goes there’s no one quite as dedicated to tracking me down as he is. Imagine how much simpler things would be if he were no longer part of the equation.”</p><p>“That’s <em>bullshit</em>.” My voice is practically a snarl by now, and I hate the way it sounds but still can’t seem to stop myself “You know it is. He’s not even looking for you! Whether he’s alive or not makes zero difference to us.”</p><p>You shrug. “Perhaps not to you. It makes a great deal of difference to me.”</p><p>“I don’t care! Your vendetta with Jack is irrelevant: I want you safe and I want you <em>gone</em>.”</p><p>Even as I’m saying this I know it’s nothing more than a shameless attempt to manipulate your sense of better feeling – just as I know it’s also completely pointless, because all it means is that you’ll do the same thing straight back again (only ten times more shamelessly). “Well, <em>I</em> don’t want us to be always on the run,” you reply, right on cue. “I want us to have a home together. A permanent home. One where we’re not always looking over our shoulder.”</p><p>I was already prepared for a manoeuvre like this, yet somehow the hypocrisy of it is still enough to stretch my fragile patience almost to breaking point. “Don’t you <em>dare</em>,” I snap. “Don’t you dare pretend you want to stay here for my sake. This is about <em>you</em>.” I take another breath, briefly letting down my guard as I allow a tinge of genuine emotion to leak into my voice. “Everything you’ve ever done in your <em>life</em> is about you.”</p><p>For a few seconds you stare at me: it’s obvious my outburst has got to you, although there’s no way you’ll admit it. “Remember what I told you before?” is all you reply. “Yes, this is a potential crisis. But all you’re seeing is a threat where you should be seeing opportunity.”</p><p>Fretfully I reach up to remove my glasses and then realise I’ve already taken them off. “An opportunity for you to get <em>caught</em>,” I say bitterly. “And then me as well.”</p><p>“He is not going to catch either of us,” you reply. Yeah, you’re <em>definitely</em> annoyed now: the tension in your voice is obvious, stretched and taut like overwound cello strings. “But even if he and I <em>did</em> cross paths, do you really think I’d turn you in?”</p><p>I give another, even louder sigh, then drag my fingers through my hair. “No,” I reply in a softer voice. “Of course I don’t think that. But this is a situation that’s so easy to avoid and the only thing that’s stopping you is your ego. Not logic, not pragmatism – not concern for me. Just pride. And arrogance. And your fantasy feud with Jack. And it’s going to make you walk straight into the eye of the storm.”</p><p>“But that’s what I’ve always done,” you say. “And so have you.” You’re still staring straight at me, cold and faintly reptilian, with a voice that’s already returned to normal. It’s a trait of yours I’ve often noticed; that the angrier you are, the more serene you outwardly appear. “You’d hardly be here otherwise, would you Will? You’d still be in America slowly suffocating to death.”</p><p>“Yeah, and instead I’m here,” I say bleakly. “Watching you play Russian Roulette and expecting me to hand you the gun.”</p><p>“Then it appears we’re both watching each other, doesn’t it?” you reply. “You watch me, while I watch you, still doing what you’ve always done. Which is to try and control your life rather than simply live it.”</p><p>There’s a long, unpleasant silence. For a few seconds I don’t entirely trust myself to speak from a risk I’ll snap out something harsh and hurtful that I won’t be able to take back. “Okay we’re done here,” I finally reply. “That’s enough. I just can’t with you. Not right now.”</p><p>One thing I promised myself when we started living together was that I’d never turn my back on an argument. I’d felt it would be an admission of weakness, like I was allowing you to gain the upper hand through your force of personality and perceived right to pronounce. Closing the door as I walk away feels symbolic for a profound sense of failure, knowing that I’m breaking my rule and letting emotion take over because my words have run out. Only I really can’t help it this time because there’s just <em>so much</em> at stake. Your freedom, my happiness…our life. In that moment I’d give anything to make you change your mind. And it’s that, more than anything else, which is driving my frustration because of how incredibly helpless I feel to make it happen.</p><p>*****</p><p>That night I sleep in my own room.  </p><p>I don’t turn it into a big deal or make a scene out of it. I don’t even tell you I’m going. Instead I just spend the evening with you as normal, chafing beneath the strained silence of a conflict which never really stopped as opposed to simply running out of energy. I’m doing my best to focus on a book and I can feel your eyes on me entire time from across the room; I think you’re hoping that I’ll walk over and stretch out next to you, ruffling your hair or putting my feet on your knee, the same way I usually do. Only I can’t, so I don’t, and I know you won’t try to make me. Coercion has never been your thing. For you it’s all about persuasion, so compelling me to let you touch me will never satisfy you as much as me choosing to do it because I want to. Except I <em>don’t</em> want to, so finally toss the book aside and go to have a shower, then instead of turning left into our bedroom I just walk straight past it and keep on going. I’m half-expecting you to turn up straight afterwards to demand an explanation but ultimately you don’t. Possibly it’s because you’re respecting my space, although I can’t help feeling such restraint would be out of character. More likely it’s just that you’re just too proud to come.</p><p>This is the first night we’ve spent apart in a very long time and I find it depressing how much your absence bothers me. In fact if I’m honest it feels outright pathetic: like I’m too childish and dependent to manage sleeping alone. But it’s clear I must be both these things, because after an hour of fretful tossing and turning I’m still nowhere near getting settled. In the corner of my eye I can see the crazed flickering of a moth flinging itself against the window, accompanied every so often by the desperate <em>thud</em> of its small furry body crashing against the glass. The hopelessness of it depresses me even more so I get up to let it out then shuffle back to bed again and tug the sheet over my head until only my hair is showing. At first I try to blame the room for my wakefulness – how the mattress is harder than I’m used to, or the way the linen has the impersonal, detergent smell of a hotel – but of course this isn’t the real reason, and I know if you were here I’d be able to sleep just fine. This awareness is humiliating, not least because it’s impossible to imagine you pining and fretting in anywhere near the same way. Even so, it’s also likely that you’re still awake yourself (in fact you almost certainly are), because even at the best of times you don’t rest like a regular person. It’s like you just lie there in the dark, silently recharging like a giant cell phone.</p><p>After a lot more sighing and fidgeting I finally wear myself out enough to fall into an uneasy sleep. Only it’s not the sort that’s fallen into gently and peacefully, but instead is the fitful fearful kind that’s stumbled inside with the same violence of falling down a pitch-black hole. It’s been a long time since I last had a nightmare, but tonight I make up for it by pitching into one of the worst ones I’ve had in recent memory. It’s like I’m trapped in a kaleidoscope of crimson and black, stalked by something with a dripping mouth and grasping claws; something blood-streaked and bone-tinged with tattered black feathers like flecks of tar which crouches and crawls in the shadows. You’re there too, only this time it’s the old version of you: the one I never want to talk about, or even acknowledge could still exist. This is the version which lies and smiles and is coldly cruel and lethal – pale and hollow-eyed with a face as planed and angled as a solid piece of ice. <em>What are you doing here?</em> I ask it, but it refuses to say. So on instinct I pull myself away from it but no matter where I turn it’s still just standing there, impossible to escape from, and I finally wake up with an oily layer of sweat clinging to my skin and a throat that’s raw from screaming.</p><p>From the floor below comes the quick sound of footsteps before a silhouette appears in the doorway a few seconds later. You’re treading very softly, presumably not to freak me out, but I’m too disoriented to make sense of what’s happening and when I feel your arms around me I immediately make a frenzied attempt to fight you off.</p><p>“It’s all right,” I hear you saying. “Be calm. Will. <em>Mylimasis</em>. You know I’m not going to harm you.”</p><p>Your voice is unusually gentle and the sound of it is enough to steady me as reality finally reasserts itself. “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” I say. My voice is hoarse from all the yelling and I clear my throat a few times. “Did that hurt?”</p><p>“No.” Your hand is on my back by now, gently stroking up and down. “Not at all.”</p><p>I’m sure you must be lying: I definitely landed a solid punch to your jaw. “I didn’t mean to,” I say gruffly. “You should have just let go of me.”</p><p>“Yes,” you reply, “I suppose I could have done that. Only I’m not entirely made of stone. If you’re distressed my instinct will always be to comfort you – even if I get attacked for my trouble.” You make an amused noise then lean down to lay a kiss on my forehead.  “I suppose I should learn to say no to you, yet somehow it seems a talent which is still beyond me. You are a constant source of strength while also being my greatest weakness. It’s really quite a paradox.”</p><p>“Save it,” I say irritably. “Don’t try and placate me. This doesn’t change anything – I’m still mad at you.”</p><p>“Yes, I expected you would be.” You don’t sound remotely concerned about this; instead you just flex your neck a few times then settle down very happily, rather like it’s your own goddamn bed and I just happen to be borrowing it. “Could you kindly move to the side?” you add. “Your legs are taking up rather a lot of room.”</p><p>“You’re unbelievable,” I say. “This is <em>my</em> bed. Move your own legs.”</p><p>“But where can I move them to?” you reply politely. “You are occupying all the available space.”</p><p>I make an angry huffing sound between my teeth. I suppose I could try and <em>make</em> you go, but I’m not all that confident of success – and if I’m honest, I don’t really want you to. I shuffle grudgingly a few inches to the left then roll onto my back again and stare up at the ceiling. At some point your arm has managed to sneak its way round me but it seems like too much effort to get you to move it.</p><p>“I can almost hear you seething,” you say. “Why don’t you just commence with your lecture and get it out of your system?”</p><p>“Oh shut up.” Without fully meaning to I turn round a little until my face is snugly pressed against your shoulder: there’s a rustling sound as you lean down to rest your cheek against my hair. “I can’t be bothered to lecture you,” I add. “Anyway, I don’t have anything new to say.”</p><p>“I find that rather hard to believe.”</p><p>“That’s your problem,” I say crossly.</p><p>“Well, if you truly don’t want to lecture me then talk to me about something else. Tell me what you were dreaming about.”</p><p>In the darkness I bite my lip; I wonder if you’ve already guessed that it was about you. “I can’t remember,” I reply after a slight pause. “It was just a nightmare…just the usual.”</p><p>“You haven’t had one for a long time.”</p><p>“Yeah, not until tonight,” I say bitterly. “What an unbelievable coincidence.”</p><p>“I know – and I apologise. I’ve clearly caused you some anxiety.”</p><p>I stiffen slightly then raise my head so I can look at you directly. “Don’t, Hannibal. Don’t say you’re sorry when you’re not. If you were <em>really</em> sorry then you’d change your mind about leaving.”</p><p>For a few seconds you stare back at me without speaking, your eyes gleaming in the darkness like little flinty stars. “I want you to trust me Will,” you say finally. “Can you do that?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” I’m aware how cautious my voice sounds: I’m not sure what I was expecting your response to be, but somehow it wasn’t that. “It depends what you’re going to say.”</p><p>“And what do you think I’m going to say.”</p><p>“Something stupid.”</p><p>It’s too dark to see your mouth but from your tone I can tell that you’re smiling. “What do you mean?” you ask. “Define stupid.”</p><p>“I mean <em>reckless</em>. I mean you’re going to suggest something that no one in their right mind would ever do.”</p><p>“So ‘stupid’ is to break with convention?  In that case I’m afraid I’m always destined for stupidity. Because I am a voice, Will – not an echo.” I sigh impatiently and you wait a few more seconds then reach out to cradle the side of my face with your hand. “Now listen,” you say. “The first point I wish to make is that you and I…we are the only two people who matter. There is no one on whom my life focuses as much as you.”</p><p>“Don’t say that,” I snap. “You can’t turn me into your only chance to be happy.”</p><p>I’m waiting you to fire something back but this time you don’t. To be honest I think I’ve shocked you. Your eyes are still catching the light but now it’s in steely pinpricks which look actively sinister: still like stars, only not the romantic cosmic kind but ones which are cold and dead. They remind me of a documentary I saw once on the notorious White Dwarves – cannibal supernovas that linger in the bleakness of space and consume any stars around them which are unlucky enough to stray too close. Carnivorous stars. You now run them over my face again, very slow and appraising, and as I watch they catch the moonlight once more and seem to flicker. It’s like my heartrate is rising beneath the strength of them and I have to force myself to calm down and remember that this is <em>you;</em> the real version who exists right now, not the nightmarish one from my dream. My hair, damp with sweat, is tangling in my eyes and I try to brush it away before realising that you’ve reached out to do the same which means our hands end up clashing above my eyebrow. The absurdity of it breaks the tension and despite the stress of everything I find myself starting to smile.</p><p>“Okay, I’m sorry,” I tell you. “I didn’t mean that: I’m not really thinking straight. Finish what you were going to say.”</p><p>Your head dips in acknowledgement, although you keep on staring for a few more silent seconds before finally deciding to speak. “Understand this Will,” you say. “I know you think my desire to stay here comes from hubris – and you are not entirely incorrect. But you should also know that my pride has never once overwhelmed my judgement. If I thought that remaining would genuinely endanger either of us then there would be no question I would leave. But I do <em>not</em> think that.”</p><p>“No,” I say quietly. “I know you don’t. The trouble is that I think you’re wrong.”</p><p>It’s clear you’re dying to tell me how you’re never wrong but for once have managed to read the situation well enough to know it would make me lose my shit. The restraint is unexpected; maybe you <em>have</em> been practicing your empathy skills after all?</p><p>“Regardless, I’m still confident this decision is the right one,” is all you say instead. “It is also utilitarian. It is consequentialism in its purest form: a choice that will produce the greatest good for the greatest number.”</p><p>“No it’s not. How is that consequentialism? The greatest number in this scenario is two.”</p><p>“Of course,” you say smoothly. “Haven’t I already established that you and I are the only ones who matter? Which is why I wish to stay here and settle a score which will keep us safer in the long-term. And it’s why I wish <em>you</em> to stay in order to face your fears and learn to overcome them.”</p><p>In the resulting silence I hear myself sigh again. Only this time it’s not so much angry as tired: tired and defeated as I feel the last strains of resistance slowly seep away. It’s so tempting to call you out for the bullshit this clearly is, yet despite my reservations the force of your confidence is somehow enough to keep me mute. My hand’s still clasped in yours. Pulling it away would be such a simple way to indicate disagreement, yet for some reason I don’t do that either. Why don’t I? It’s frustrating. So many times – ever since we first met – I’ve allowed my choices to be submerged by yours, and despite the endless wrangling I have a terrible feeling that this is going to be just another instance to add to the list.</p><p>Oh God, the whole equation is so supremely fucked up. Both for his sake and yours, I know there’s no way I could ever let you hunt down Jack; but then what use is that when there’s no way I know how to stop you? And there’s no way I could ever leave you behind, yet perversely I also hate the thought of forcing you to follow me out of Florence while knowing that when the moment came I wasn’t ‘brave’ enough to take a stand with you. It’s an impossible choice – set up entirely by you with all your usual precision – and either way the decision to stay or go feels choked with conflict. But rather than argue about it anymore I ultimately just do what it feels like I’ve always done: which is to sigh one last time then screw my eyes tightly closed, a wordless expression of ‘<em>Okay, we’ll do it your way…at least for now</em>.’</p><p>Your own response is likewise unspoken. You don’t gloat about your success in persuading me to back down or express any satisfaction at having temporarily ‘won’ the argument; instead you’re very quiet and humble in a way that’s out of character, like you’re grateful I’m prepared to see things from your point of view. Then you kiss me and pull me close to you, stroking my face while telling me you love me (this time in Russian) and I suppose it should feel like a positive moment but I’m too numb and resigned for that. So instead I just take tighten my grip on your hand then cling onto it as hard as I can, imagining that somehow I can keep us both safe through sheer force of will. I’m thinking of what you said before about how your pride has never overcome your judgement, and how much I wish the same was true for me. Only it’s not. It’s not at all. If anything the opposite is the case, because my fitful irrational love for you has overcome my judgement almost from the first day we laid eyes on each other…and in that moment it seems like a real possibly that maybe it always will.</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey my lovelies, I’m so happy and honoured to say that there is now fanart for this fic and it is gorgeous! For an exquisite portrait of Hannibal (and lots of other stunning Hannigram art), please visit Vapidus’ <a href="https://twitter.com/sebastian_art__/status/1365080417557221377">Twitter page</a>. If you’re in the mood for Hannigram feels, there is beautiful cover art by sparklingjoy and chapter art by wendywendigo, or if the angst is getting to you then browse around MrsSteampunk’s fan-sass-tic Sassy Will Gallery (all three linked in the Related Work section at the end of the fic). This fandom is full of fabulous artists who are so generous with sharing their time and talent, we Fannibals are such a lucky bunch xox</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I’m hoping a night’s sleep will make me feel calmer but predictably enough it doesn’t. This lack of improvement is annoying. Actually, it’s so annoying that I’m getting to the point where I can’t tell if I should be more frustrated at events themselves or myself for having so little control over the attention I’m giving them. <em>We are at the mercy of events, even though events have no mercy in them</em>…who was it who told me that? I’m sure it was you. It’s certainly the type of ominously cryptic shit you seem to favour, although admittedly it’s also a bit too gloomy and fatalistic to fit your general philosophy so maybe it wasn’t you after all. In fact, it almost definitely wasn’t: you’re much more inclined to tell events to go and fuck themselves. Even so, the contrast between your calm complacency and my own special brand of mental anguish is enough to make me realise that I don’t want to you to witness any more of it and that I should probably take myself (and, by extension, it) out of the apartment for a while. The fact you hate me going anywhere without you means this solution could also become another source of conflict, but even if my anxiety didn’t need an outing I know I’d still go anyway. You’ll never acknowledge how unreasonable your demands can be, which means the only way to deal with them is by setting clear boundaries – in this instance showing that I refuse to be surgically attached to you 24/7. Then I spend some time brooding over whether you’d <em>literally</em> surgically attach me to you if you thought you could get away with it (you almost certainly would – it’s exactly the sort of fucked-up statement that would appeal to you) before heading to one of the local <em>caffetterie</em> with the sole plan of lolling around like a hipster for a couple of hours while pretending to be a normal person with normal problems.</p><p>The place in question is only a few blocks away and because the owner knows me (and always gives me free coffee) I tend to visit it quite often. I got talking to him by chance a few months ago and a sort of rapport has struck up in the meantime, mostly for no better reason than he’s also American and it seemed like an easy point of contact. He’s even got a quintessentially American name – Hunter – and an accent that’s stronger than mine is, despite having lived in Italy for much longer. After my first few visits he finally asked me my own name and I actually thought he was hitting on me. He wasn’t of course, but it made me realise how much I’d grown conditioned to see relationships as a form of transaction where nothing’s ever offered without the expectation of something in return. Only it turned out he didn’t want anything except the company, so now I’ll visit a few times a month to linger over multiple coffees and enjoy the sort of mindless, easy conversations that I can’t really have with you: American politics and sports teams or the best parts of Tuscany to go fishing in. Sometimes we’ll even abandon talk completely and just sit there and grunt at each other while the baseball game plays above the bar, muttering ‘<em>Shit</em>’ and ‘<em>Oh man</em>’ whenever the Ravens miss a hit, even though I don’t care all that much and I suspect he doesn’t either. In fact, if I’m honest, the lack of conversation is maybe the best thing of all, because it’s something that’s almost impossible to have while living with someone who enjoys dissecting every word I say. </p><p>Hunter’s latest overture is lending me crime novels, which he appears to have a low-level obsession with and orders online by the crateload. They’re always set in New York or LA and follow identical tropes where the murders are like jigsaw puzzles: each piece neatly marked out and just waiting for an enterprising detective (who’s inevitably lantern-jawed and charismatic as opposed to sad, deranged and socially awkward) to saunter in and slot it into place. Complete bullshit, in other words, because in real life it’s more like a puzzle where most of the pieces are missing and the remaining ones have lost their edges or are printed on both sides – and even when they’ve been assembled there’s always a few left over which can't be made to fit. But despite their obvious crappiness the novels offer a certain guilty pleasure and I still end up reading them anyway. The only hitch was when I realised how disappointed he became that I could always work out who the killer was. I think he wanted me to be as captivated by them as is he himself, so now I pretend to be amazed when I get to the final chapter and everything is revealed. I suppose this is the sort of small attention a friend would pay, even though our interactions don’t seem advanced enough to constitute anything as meaningful as actual friendship. Not that I would really know. I’m not used to having friends and all my acquaintances tend to slot into the category of either colleague, crush, confidante, mortal enemy, or you (who’s always occupied a sprawling category of your own that manages to cover the other four).</p><p>Hunter, on the other hand, is too informal for a colleague, too detached for a crush or a confidante, and shows no signs of turning into a mortal enemy (although with my life, who fucking knows) and in many ways it’s a comfortable arrangement that’s low-effort and restful in the way of pulling on an elderly pair of slippers. In fact there’s only one big, maniacal elephant in the room amid all this cosy companionship which, of course, is you and what might happen if (when?) you found out about it. It’s safe to say you wouldn’t like it, but the most obvious solution – introducing you so you can see he’s not a serious competitor for my attention – feels too risky in case he recognised you. Admittedly this doesn’t seem likely, but I’m still not willing to take the chance. Besides, the obsession with crime stories feels like a warning sign that his interest might extend to true crime as well, in which case he’d almost certainly spot you on sight.</p><p>Out of habit I now check behind to make sure you’re not following me (you’re not) then push the door open and begin the same routine I always do, which involves tucking myself into my usual spot by the window then ordering my usual espresso until Hunter finally spots me and comes over. He’s carrying a book under his arm (also as usual) which he triumphantly drops on the table then slides towards me. I take a covert glance at the cover but it’s so indistinguishable from all the others that there’s not all that much to see: a photo of a bleakly deserted cityscape with the colour saturation turned to zero and the authors name in shrieking red font.</p><p>“Hey man!” he says. “How are you doing?” He always calls me ‘man’; in fact he does it so often there seems a genuine possibility he’s forgotten what my name is. Likewise his greeting is pretty much a rite of passage by now, so I dutifully respond with the predictable (<em>Fine thanks, yourself?</em>) then attempt to show some interest in the book.</p><p>“You’ll love this one,” says Hunter excitedly. “It’s a real page-turner. Cage is on awesome form.” Cage is the name of the lead character: lantern-jawed homicide investigator extraordinaire (and, as far as I’m concerned, a smug insufferable shit who I keep hoping will die spectacularly and horribly before the series is done). He’s also such a collection of cliches that the author might as well have named him Badass McToughcop and been done with it, although judging by the record-setting sales figures no one else seems to mind this but me. I now smile politely then continue studying the cover like I’m trying to absorb its awesomeness through osmosis. “Yeah, it’s worth anyone’s time” continues Hunter. “And it’s got a really smart red herring halfway through.”</p><p>This makes my mouth quirk into a smile without fully meaning to. <em>Red herring</em>. It’s such a quaint expression: the sort of term beloved by old-fashioned detective novels where an elegant middle-aged lady discovers who murdered the butler and stole the church restoration fund before driving off in an Edwardian motor car as the local constables arrive to haul the miscreant off to the magistrates. It bares no resemblance to the carnage and chaos I used to witness day after day where there was never any room for the romance and intrigue of red herrings. Because there wasn’t, was there? No room at all. We never had red herrings in Behavioral Sciences. We had misleading facts and SUs, and where detective novels have inklings and suspicions we had swabs and evidence bags and bits of human bodies on slabs. Real homicide work isn’t <em>Clue</em>. It’s never going to be Colonel Mustard in the library with a candlestick, as opposed to <em>Il Macellaio</em> in a filthy back alley with a meat cleaver.</p><p>“Thanks,” is all I say. “I’ll give it a go.”</p><p>“Yeah you should. Let me know what you think.”</p><p>I give one of my trademark vague smiles and he smiles back then settles down in the opposite chair – although not before inviting me to choose from a plate of <em>panettone </em>which I didn’t order, and don’t actually want, but seem like I’m going to have to eat anyway on the basis that he’s caught whatever weird compulsion you and Giulietta have for constantly trying to feed me up.</p><p>“So what have you been up to?” he adds. “I haven’t seen you for a while.”</p><p>I shrug then take a tentative sip of my coffee. “Oh you know,” I reply from over the top of the mug. “Nothing much.”</p><p>I’m trying not to sound evasive but I’m not sure how convincing it is. Questions like this always feel risky, although I’ve admittedly been very successful so far at spinning a fictitious version of my life that’s true enough to sound convincing (on sabbatical; travelling round Europe) while also being sufficiently boring to never invite any follow-up questions. Currently my main cover is an imaginary fondness for art, which means he thinks I spend all day trudging round galleries and museums, guidebook clutched solemnly in hand like a typical tourist. Hunter now nods and smiles in response, but predictably doesn’t ask for further details. This was expected: the café décor helped me deduce early on that he wasn’t interested in classical art, which was an added incentive to choose it for my cover story. Admittedly living with you for so long has diluted any aversion I might once have had for lying, but at least a lack of questions reduces the chance of accidentally slipping up.</p><p>“Well I’m glad I’ve seen you,” adds Hunter. He sounds like he genuinely is…God knows why. It’s not as if the real version is particularly loveable, but the fake version with the art gallery fetish feels like the most boring self-righteous bastard imaginable. Which of course means that this is also me, even though it’s not. Hmm, no, it is though, isn’t it? <em>I</em> am the boring self-righteous bastard. I take another thoughtful sip of coffee, mulling over this rather interesting dilemma.</p><p>“How are you fixed on this weekend?” adds Hunter. He sounds very eager; he hasn’t noticed I’m in the middle of an existential crisis. “I was thinking of heading to the Arno on Sunday. The fishing is out of this world. There are Wels catfish that top 100 kilos.” He spans his hands in an exaggerated ‘<em>check out this monster</em>’ gesture of fishermen the world over. “What do you say? We could grab a few beers and spend the afternoon there.”</p><p>I automatically open my mouth to refuse, only to find myself struck by a sudden mad urge to say yes before the words can fully form. This enthusiasm is unexpected, and not entirely welcome, but the problem is that I’d quite like to. In fact, I’d <em>really</em> like to. It’s been so long since I’ve had any escapism and the idea has a genuine appeal to it: hours of companionable silence, trading tips and insights while watching the water with someone who (unlike you) doesn’t find fishing both boring and pointless. For a few seconds I stare at this allure like a kid in a candy shop before regretfully forcing myself to turn my back on it. It’s not like you could stop me going, but there’s no way you’d be happy about it – and even if I wanted to lie to you, which I don’t, it seems inevitable you’d find out about it anyway.</p><p>Without meaning to I let out a very small sigh:  it occurs to me, a bit too late, that I’m opening and closing my mouth like one of the monster catfish. “Thanks,” I say forlornly. “That would have been great. But I’m afraid I can’t this weekend.”</p><p>“Oh okay – no worries. Some other time.”</p><p>I nod in agreement then pick up one of the <em>panettone </em>and begin to nibble it rather half-heartedly.  “Yeah,” I reply. “Some other time.”</p><p>Hunter smiles to indicate no hard feelings then leans back in his chair again before launching into a rambling, good-natured narrative about his brother, a rainbow trout, and a capsized boat on Lake Erie. It’s the sort of story that goes round in circles and doesn’t require much input beyond the occasional smile, so I lean back in my own chair then take another pensive sip of my coffee. It’s ironic that this trip was supposed to make me feel better, but the longer I stay the more I realise it’s making me feel worse. Contact with ordinary people tends to do this, even though I know that as long as we’re together then it’s <em>always</em> going to be like this. It’ll always be lies and evasions and an eternal inability to establish any sort of intimacy with anyone who’s not you…your mere existence an enormous secret that I’ll have to spend every waking moment struggling to keep.  For a few seconds I find myself staring wistfully at the large window that stretches across the wall of the café. It’s like I’m on the other side, one hand pressed against the glass as I gaze at a vision of normality I’ll never be able to have. It reminds me of how I once pressed my palm against a similar glass with you on the other side – and the way that now I’ve moved round to join you there’ll never be space for anyone except the two of us.</p><p>Possibly this pining is perverse. In fact I <em>know</em> that it is. It’s the sort of masochistic ‘grass is greener’ mentality that chases aimlessly after what it can’t have. After all, it’s not like I cared that much about normality when it was available; it’s only now it’s been snatched away that I’ve stubbornly decided I miss it. It’s not a case of regretting my choices either, because I don’t. I wouldn’t give you up for anything. And yet despite that – despite all of it – I can’t deny the way that every so often I’ll catch myself with a yearning, guilty sense of wanting something more.</p><p>*****</p><p>I’ve barely been gone two hours but I still get back to find you acting as if I’ve been missing all day. This is annoying, but not surprising, because while you’ve learned to be more tolerant of me spending time alone anything over an hour away is still guaranteed to bother you. There’s no point asking you <em>why</em> you react like this because you’d never admit it, but I suspect it comes from a combination of factors. Partly I think it’s possessiveness, and partly it’s resentment of me having interests which don’t include you, but mainly I think it stems from a deep-seated sense of bitterness that I might revert to my old self and betray you; that one day I’ll simply walk out the door and never come back.</p><p>Regardless of the reason your scrutiny still isn’t especially appreciated, so I now push past you rather irritably then stomp upstairs to change into a more comfortable shirt. This is because I’m wearing one of yours again, and while it’s undeniably stylish it’s also incredibly unforgiving in how stiff and unyielding the fabric is. God knows how you can stand them yourself, although you never seem to mind. As expected you follow straight behind me then sit on the bed; I don’t even need to turn round to know that your eyes will be beaming in my direction with one of your special high-intensity stares.</p><p>“What?” I say finally. It comes out harsher than intended and I pause slightly then turn round and deliberately soften my tone. “What’s the matter with you?”</p><p>“There is nothing the matter with me,” you reply (yeah right). “Although I might ask the same question of <em>you</em>.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I mean that you disappear for hours then return home in a singularly foul mood.”</p><p>“I wasn’t gone for hours,” I protest. “It was less than two.”</p><p>“It was far more than that,” you reply, even though it wasn’t. “You’ve been in a café haven’t you? You have a smell of cheap coffee all over you.”</p><p>I roll my eyes so hard they almost fall out of my head then turn round and give you A Look. “Don’t start with that,” I say. “I mean it. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re complaining about. I’m always in a foul mood – I’m not sure how you can even tell the difference.”</p><p>This makes you smile, despite looking like you’re trying not to, before leaning back against the headboard and holding out your hand. “Come here,” you say.</p><p>“No. And don’t talk to me like that, I’m not a dog.”</p><p>“Certainly you’re not.” You’re still smiling; still holding out your hand. “Please?” you add.</p><p>I make the usual performance of rolling my eyes again, although the effort is pretty half-hearted and in the end I go over anyway and arrange myself next to you on the bed. “Thank you,” you say. “I appreciate your forbearance. Now, please tell me what’s wrong.”</p><p>I make an irritated sound between my teeth. This pantomime is so typical of us, because despite the severity of yesterday’s argument it’s clear that we’re both going to pretend it hasn’t happened. “Nothing’s wrong,” I finally say, which confirms I’m turning into almost as big a bullshitter as you are. “I just feel…rough. I don’t know. I don’t feel like myself.” You open your mouth to reply and I quickly press my finger against your lips. “Spare me the philosophical speech about identity, please. Just let me feel like crap in a straightforward way.”</p><p>“I’m sorry that you feel…” You hesitate, obviously reluctant to utter such a plebeian word as ‘crap’. “…Unlike yourself.”</p><p>“Thanks,” I say. Then I give a loud sigh without fully meaning to before disentangling myself from your arms until I’m lying on my back and can prop myself against your chest. You reach down to run your fingers through my hair.</p><p>“You are quite correct that you are not a dog,” you say fondly. “Yet how much easier it might be if you were. No, don’t look so offended; it’s an observation against myself rather than you. It’s merely that a dog is extremely predictable and easy to…” There’s a small pause and I have a sense you were about to say ‘control’ before catching yourself. “Easy to understand,” you continue smoothly. “There is nothing especially complicated about a dog: its needs are few and its contentment is simple to attain. I, on the other hand, now find myself sharing a home with a beautiful complex being and I confess that I don’t always know the best way to manage you.”</p><p>“Well that’s an easy problem to have,” I say sharply. “Because you <em>don’t</em> have to manage me.”</p><p>“You’re right, my phrasing was poor. I should have said ‘to best take care of you.’”</p><p>“You don’t have to do that either.”</p><p>“No, I suppose I don’t – yet I find myself wanting to all the same. I’m not completely immune to your emotions, Will. We’ve travelled on too long a journey together for me to settle with seeing you so unhappy.”</p><p>“I’m not unhappy,” I say in a softer voice. “Not at all. I’m just stressed.”</p><p>“Perhaps you are. Yet those things do tend to overlap.” I shrug without replying, and you give a small sigh of your own at such an incredibly obvious attempt to dodge the conversation. “I suppose I need to study you a little more diligently,” you eventually add. “We are so alike in many ways, yet fundamentally we are not the same. I sometimes forget that you are younger than I am and that our lives have taken such different courses. It’s unreasonable of me to assume that your response to adversity will always mirror my own.”</p><p>“I’m not <em>that</em> much younger than you,” I say; I sound a bit defensive. “Only a few years.”</p><p>“It’s rather more than that; we have an entire decade between us. However, it’s not merely a question of age. It is as I said – our experiences have not been the same. You were formed in quite a different crucible.” You smile to yourself then begin to gently stroke my hair again. “Such contrary paths: you in your little homespun corner of America and me in my European wilderness. You know, I sometimes entertain myself imagining alternate scenarios in which we might have met one another, yet regardless of which scenario I spin my conclusions always remain the same: namely that I would have been determined to have you. No obstacles would have been enough to prevent me. Forbidden fruit, Will. The greater the prohibition, the stronger my determination would have been. Whether you were a student of mine, a paying patient – even a son-in-law.”</p><p>I make a groaning noise then screw my eyes closed. “Oh God, just…don’t. That’s gross.”</p><p>“Yes,” you say happily. “I dare say.”</p><p>“You’d really try to seduce a son-in-law?”</p><p>“If he were you? Absolutely I would.”</p><p>“Then you are a terrible person.”</p><p>“Am I?” you reply in an exaggeratedly innocent voice. “Surely not.”</p><p>Despite trying not to I still end up laughing (which is always a mistake because the absolute <em>last</em> thing you need is encouragement) then settle down contentedly against your chest again. You resume the stroking motion on my hair, although while it starts off casual it quickly grows more persistent as it shifts towards my face: tracing your finger along my cheekbone, my jaw, then even pressing against my lower lip like you’re hoping I might open my mouth to let you slide it in. I don’t, but you still carry on anyway, the stroking never changing to become either harder or gentler but continuing at the same smooth pace like you’re just patiently waiting for me to catch up with you and start to respond. I suppose the last conversation has left you feeling amorous, although this isn’t necessarily surprising. After all, any chance you get to imagine yourself acting like a massive asshole is guaranteed to set you off.</p><p>“Stop it,” I say without opening my eyes. “I don’t want to. I’m tired.”</p><p>“My poor boy, I suppose you are. But you are also beautiful and available – so what am I to do?”</p><p>“Ugh, you’re insatiable.”</p><p>“I am not.”</p><p>“Yes,” I say. “Yes you are.” I crack open my eyes then stare up at you disapprovingly. “Behave yourself. Or else I’ll re-set your puzzle box and you’ll have to start the whole thing over.” I pause then give you a rather smug look. “<em>And</em> I won’t help you solve it again.”</p><p>“Would you really? What a little monster you are.”</p><p>“Yes, I know. Cry me a river.”</p><p>“But on this occasion I am not insatiable,” you say, opening your eyes very wide in a way that I suppose is meant to look innocent. “On this occasion my concern is with you rather than myself.”</p><p>“Is that so?” I ask with obvious sarcasm.</p><p>This time your only response is a long slow smile before reaching out to flick open the top button of my shirt. “Take your clothes off,” you say leisurely.</p><p>“No, I won’t. And again with the orders – don’t I even get a ‘please’?”</p><p>“P-l-e-a-s-e,” you reply, deliberately drawing out the syllables. “I guarantee it will be worth your while.”</p><p>“Convince me.”</p><p>“As I said: because I intend the focus to be on you.” You unfasten a second button then dip your finger beneath the fabric to lightly stroke my collar bone. “I want you to run your hands over your body <em>mylimasis</em>: to touch yourself and give yourself pleasure. I know you’d like to – and I’d like to watch you.”</p><p>Considering how jealous you usually get when I do this makes me suspect that the invitation is meant as a concession; possibly your way of trying to apologise for being so controlling earlier. It’s also deeply manipulative (in the way most of your apologies tend to be) although remains pretty tempting despite it – not least because it seems like ages since I’ve had a chance to jerk off and I always get a bit of a kick out of you watching me. It’s honestly hard not to: there’s just something incredibly addictive about being the subject of such tender, intensely focussed regard. I falter for a few seconds and you take my silence as enough sign of agreement to abruptly hoist me up until I’m lying on top of you with my back pressed against your chest.</p><p>“Hey, cut it out,” I say crossly. “You know you could have just asked? You don’t always need to fling me about.”</p><p>“Well, you are here now,” you reply, pressing a kiss on the side of my throat. “The end result is the same.” I automatically roll my eyes, even though you can’t see me do it, then shift aside a bit to give you better access to finish unbuttoning my shirt. “I confess, I am glad to be rid of this,” you say, slowly smoothing your palm across my shoulder. “You should have kept mine on. It suited you better. And I like to see you wearing my clothes.”</p><p>“I know you do – but it was uncomfortable.”</p><p>“I know it was – but this is ugly.” I make a protesting noise and you smile again then unfasten another button. “Don’t you want to do this yourself?” you add. “You don’t usually like me undressing you.”</p><p>I lean back further until my head is resting on your shoulder. “No. It was your idea, you sort it out.”</p><p>“As you wish.”</p><p>“I do wish. Put some effort in.”</p><p>“Very well. I suppose you are going to be expending all the effort within a few minutes so it’s only fair to share the division of labour.”</p><p>“Thanks for the concern,” I say smugly. “But I’ll choose my own amount of labour.”</p><p>You make an amused sound then begin to lever the shirt off my shoulders. “You’re pretending you don’t care but I know that you do. You can’t wait to begin, can you? Tell me when the last time was that you did this?”</p><p>“Hmm, I don’t remember exactly. Maybe last week.” In fact it was the week before, but I can’t help feeling you already know – it’s exactly the kind of thing you’ll be doing your best to monitor (then sulking massively because I didn’t ask you to join in).</p><p>“Then tell me something else,” you add, as if reading my mind. “I’m curious. Did you ever do it in the past while thinking of me?”</p><p>“You mean before we…” I’m about to say ‘got together’, yet somehow it doesn’t feel right and I end up trailing off into silence. It’s like we’ve <em>always</em> been together, even before we technically were.</p><p>You kiss my throat again, appearing to understand without being told. “Yes,” you say. “Before.”</p><p>“No. At least not for a long time.” This isn’t the most flattering answer, but I know you always like it when I’m honest with you. “Not until after the cliff. When you’d disappeared.”</p><p>“Yes,” you say thoughtfully. “I would have assumed as much. It felt safer then, didn’t it? You could give yourself permission to indulge because there seemed less risk of it ever coming true.”  </p><p>“Yeah,” I admit. “Pretty much.” As I’m speaking you reach down to unfasten my belt and I catch my breath a little then shamelessly roll my hips towards the pressure.</p><p>“Of course it did. I must have felt fairly forbidden by that point.” You sound very happy about this. Being a source of temptation clearly pleases you; probably because you assume (correctly) that it meant you occupied a greater share of space in mind. “So where were you when you had this fantasy for the first time?” you add. “Please provide the details.”</p><p>“Nowhere special.” With a bit of effort I kick my jeans off then lean back again until my entire weight is resting against your chest. “In the shower, I think. In my old apartment.”</p><p>“Oh yes, that terrible little hovel of yours – the least said about that the better. Tell me where you went to in your mind? Where did this imaginary encounter take place?”</p><p>“It was your old office.”</p><p>“Interesting. So not in a bed; not in my house or yours?”</p><p>“I said so didn’t I?”</p><p>“You did,” you say, leaning in to kiss my throat again. “And it is another intriguing choice. You arranged your scene with minimal intimacy: somewhere relatively neutral where you could leave straight afterwards. Even in your fantasy you were trying to maintain some distance from me.”</p><p>“Mmm, yes…I guess so.”</p><p>“I don’t blame you. You weren’t going to simply accept me into your bed, were you? Not even in your mind. You expected me to prove myself first, to do something to earn your trust.”</p><p>“Oh shut up,” I say fondly. “You know you don’t mean a word of that. You’d have thought you were doing me a favour.”</p><p>You laugh again then return both hands to my shoulders, digging your thumbs into tight knots of muscle. “And I suppose you ensured that I was the one who made the first move?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Naturally yes. You would have wished to minimise your own responsibility for what happened.”</p><p>This time I just nod instead of replying then trail my hand down my abdomen, deliberately teasing both you and myself. By now it’s obvious that when you said the focus would be on me what you <em>actually</em> meant was that it would be on you, but I don’t really mind. It’s admittedly rather shit that I can’t even jerk myself off without getting psychoanalysed, but I’m so used to you by now that I can’t be bothered to complain about it. Besides, it’s not exactly doing any harm because I’m already so hard it’s almost embarrassing: it makes it look as if I’m getting turned on at the thought of myself (in other words, the exact sort of thing you would do). Above me you sigh appreciatively, wrapping a palm across my forehead to keep my head still while stroking my chest with your other hand. Your touch is gentle yet persuasive and I give a breathy moan then finally take hold of my cock, slowly rubbing the soaking wet tip with my thumb.</p><p>“Good boy,” you say softly. “You look beautiful like this. Keep talking, please: tell me how I behaved in this vision of yours.” There’s a pause followed by a light scrape of teeth on my throat, your breath very warm and damp against my skin. “Was I rough with you?”</p><p>“No,” I manage to say. Your hand is playing me like an instrument now – just the lightest, most delicate caresses across my ribs and chest. “That’s never been your style. You don’t pressure. You persuade.”</p><p>“A seduction fantasy.” You sound enraptured and it’s clear how much you’re enjoying the thought of it: me in my ugly lonely little apartment, guiltily getting off to the thought of you without knowing if I’d ever even see you again. “I could have done it for real, my love – all you had to do was ask. You were so sad and solitary, always yearning for someone to touch you with kindness. You didn’t even expect desire, did you? Just comfort would have been enough.”</p><p>I moan in response then give a small shudder, reluctantly slowing my hand to a gentler rhythm as I’m confronted with the real risk that I’m about to ruin things by coming too soon. I’m already so close, it’s ridiculous; there’s a bottle of lube nearby on the nightstand, but I’m leaking so much pre-come by now I’m not sure I even need it. You make another satisfied sigh at the sight of it then run a finger across the glistening trail on my stomach before pressing it against my lips as invitation to open my mouth. I obey immediately, swirling my tongue across it then moaning slightly at the sense of being able to taste myself.</p><p>“That’s it,” you say softly. You go quiet for a few moments to listen to the sounds I’m making then move your hand so you can curl it round my neck and push my head back until my face is pressed against yours. “You really like that don’t you? Were you as excited in your fantasy as you are right now?” You pause again then resume kissing my throat, each word punctuated with a light press of lips and teeth. I tip my head back even further to give you better access, my breath hitching into a sharp little <em>oh</em> sound whenever I think you’re going to bite me. “So hard…wet….wanting.”</p><p>“God, yes,” I gasp out; you make an approving sound then run your tongue along my lower lip. “Yes I was.”</p><p>“Yes, of course you were. You’re rather luscious that way, aren’t you? So very responsive. I can’t deny it, the sight of you like that always overpowers me: my sense and reason just abandon me and instinct takes over. It’s almost like do it on purpose, although I never doubted it would be the case. To be frank, beloved, you were always very difficult in the capacity of a friend or colleague. Those mercurial moods and acerbic temperament; rather hard work at times. But as a lover I never had any doubt that you’d be perfect.” There’s another pause as you tangle your fingers into my hair, gently tugging at it while running the other hand across my torso. “Now…tell me exactly what you imagined me doing to you.”</p><p>This time it’s my turn to pause because it’s so hard to think of the right way to describe it without killing the mood. This is <em>entirely</em> your fault: for someone widely renowned as a cold-hearted bastard you can be weirdly sentimental about sex and are inclined to treat it as something solemn and sacred that shouldn’t be degraded by excessive slang words. Being explicit or vulgar is acceptable, but it has to be phrased the right way (I remember saying ‘rimming’ in front of you once and you looked like you were going to pass out with horror). I’ll have to say <em>something</em> though. Otherwise you’ll start offering suggestions yourself, and the last thing I want is for you to murder my erection by having to listen to you waxing lyrical about ‘fellatio’, ‘penetration’ or (God forbid) ‘anilingus’ in that clipped aristocratic voice. You would as well; you’re more than capable.</p><p>“You walked up behind me,” I finally manage. “Then started to kiss me.”</p><p>You make a contented sound, deep in your throat; it’s almost like you’re purring. “Did I undress you?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“All your clothes? Or only enough to obtain the necessary access?”</p><p>For a few seconds I go silent again. Honestly, how the hell do you expect me to remember it in that much detail? Not, admittedly, that I’d <em>want</em> to remember it in that much detail. It would have required some conscious effort, and the idea of committing a Sad Wank to memory with that level of forensic precision is a particularly depressing combination of both creepy and tragic.</p><p>“Everything,” I say eventually, because why the hell not.</p><p>“And myself?”</p><p>“No, you kept your clothes on.”</p><p>“You mean <em>you</em> kept my clothes on,” you reply with typical smugness. “Another attempt to keep me at a distance I suppose. Plus the power imbalance would have suited your purpose – you placed me in a dominant role to absolve yourself of responsibility.”</p><p>“Oh yeah,” I say wryly. “It was definitely your fault.”</p><p>You make an amused sound. “Yes, I know how much you would have disliked the idea of losing control of yourself. I would have needed to go slowly with you, wouldn’t I?”</p><p>I reach up to twist my fingers into your own hair so I can give it a playful tug. “Hey, whose fantasy was it?” I say. “Mine or yours?” In fact I’ve just remembered another part, where I’d imagined getting on my knees for you on your office floor: gazing into your eyes as I licked up your pre-come then slowly taking your cock into my mouth as I watched you start to unravel. You’d had your hand on the back of neck, murmuring my name; suddenly vulnerable in a way you never were back then. The memory of it is making me get even harder, but for some reason I feel self-conscious admitting this – it’s like I still want to keep something private for myself. In the end all is add is: “As it happens, you were holding yourself back too.”</p><p>“Perhaps I was,” you say. “Would you have enjoyed seeing me lose control Will? Leave you afterwards trembling and empty because I’d taken you so hard?” My breath gives a loud hitch at the thought of it and you lean in even closer, smelling my skin from jaw to collarbone in an unmistakable gesture of ownership. You’ll often do this; sometimes it seems you can almost get yourself a bit high just from inhaling the smell of my skin. “You would have had bruises on you,” you add softly. “Would you have liked that, beloved? Little mementos all over your body as a testimony to my lack of control. Your colleagues would all have commented on them; you were so pale back then that they would have stood out like amethysts in the snow. I’d have made you press your fingers over them the next time I saw you, just enough to hurt – remembering all the pleasure and passion which placed them there.”</p><p>“You would <em>not</em>,” I say indignantly.</p><p>You laugh at this obvious bit of bullshit (because obviously, of course you would have done) then begin to kiss my throat again even harder than before. I immediately push back against you, enjoying the way your shirt’s come unfastened from how roughly I’m thrashing about on it. Your chest feels so warm pressed against my back, the skin incredibly soft compared to the firm strips of muscle underneath it.</p><p>“<em>Mano mieloji</em>,” you murmur when you finally pull away. “So what happened after that?”</p><p>“You bent me over your desk.” Hearing it out loud makes me realise what a cliché this is, despite feeling pretty profound at the time.</p><p>“Did I really? That was rather thoughtless of me. I should have laid you across my couch and made love to you, very slowly and tenderly as you deserve. Yet there you are stranded across my desk instead. My poor boy. How uncomfortable you would have been. And of course we would have had nothing nearby to use for lubrication.” By this time I’ve sped my hand up so you wait until I’ve caught my breath before dipping your head to lick into my mouth with a deep, rough kiss. “How did we improvise? Did you imagine I used my tongue to get you ready for me?”</p><p>Ludicrously I can feel myself blushing slightly. “Yes,” I say.</p><p>“And my fingers? Slowly working you open?”</p><p>As you’re speaking you reach to the nightstand to retrieve the lube and any response I want to make gets lost in a helpless wail as you flick off the lid and I feel warm fingertips sliding across my ass in a series of delicate, slippery strokes. The tight ring of muscle yields to the pressure so quickly and eagerly it’s almost humiliating; even so, you hover <em>just</em> shy of pushing in. Instead you press your thumb down next to where your fingers are caressing me, creating another loud moan as I feel my cock twitch against my stomach. You murmur my name at the sight of it then roughly search out my mouth before pressing down again even harder. The effect is immediate, and I cry out into your mouth over and over as a visible ripple of pleasure runs through my entire body.</p><p>“Yes?” you murmur, kissing my temple.</p><p>“Yes. <em>Yes</em>.”</p><p>“That was rather daring of you.” You sound so calm but I know you’re not – not really. “I’d have thought you’d confine your imaginings to something resembling an encounter with a woman. Something familiar…oral sex, perhaps? But instead I have you spread out in front of me, naked and vulnerable, getting you ready to take whatever I decide to give you.”</p><p>I give a small gasp, helplessly aware of how I’m starting to arch my entire body against yours. “Oh God, yeah, I did. I did think that.”</p><p>“Is this what you wanted all that time?” you say, your voice very low and intense. “My fingers exploring you in such a private place? You only had to ask me; you know I’d have given you whatever you wanted. Although perhaps that’s beside the point? After all, you wanted more than that didn’t you? Much, much more.”</p><p>This time my only response is to rock my hips, gasping slightly at how hot and heavy my cock feels as I desperately fist at it with my right hand. I know you’ve noticed too because of the way you catch your breath.  “You weren’t even sure if you’d like it,” you add in the same soft voice. “Yet you wanted it all the same; and you wanted me to be the one to give it to you. You showed good judgement, beloved. The idea of you experimenting with someone else is intolerable. I could never have stood seeing you in hands that were any less adoring or competent than my own.” Slowly you trail your free hand back up my chest then along my throat and jaw, stroking my lower lip until I open my mouth to suck your fingers. “I would have killed anyone who tried to touch you Will…you know that don’t you?”</p><p>By now my breath is coming out in a series of desperate pants. I hate the fact such fierce possessiveness turns me on, but it’s impossible to deny it because I know that it’s true. It’s why you’re saying it all: you want to hear me admit it. Right on cue you brush your mouth against my jaw – soft press of lips; barest hint of teeth – then slide your hand back down again to dig your thumb into the hollow of my hipbone.</p><p>“You’d never felt like that before, had you?” you say. “Not with anyone else – no one except me.”</p><p>I give another helpless gasp then shake my head; the pressure from your teeth seems to be all over my skin now, even though I’m not actually being bitten. “It’s not…I…oh God.”</p><p>“No one except me,” you repeat softly. “Say it.”</p><p>I gasp again then reach to wrap an arm around the back of your neck, vaguely aware of an enclosing sense of safety that means no matter how hard I push back against you I won’t be allowed to fall. “No one except you. Oh God. <em>God</em>…it feels so good.”</p><p>You make a contented sound then briefly bury your face in my hair like you’re trying to breathe me in. “I’m afraid it would have hurt you, my love. I’d have done my best to take care of you, but you were so inexperienced back then. You wouldn’t have known how to relax enough to take what I wanted to give you. Although perhaps you intended to imagine the pain? A brief bit of punishment for your transgression before the pleasure took over. You would have enjoyed it so much more by feeling you had earned it.”</p><p>I moan with agreement then turn my face until it’s pressed against your neck and you can feel the heat of my breath against your skin. By now I can’t manage else anything beyond a series of gasps, my cock growing slicker and heavier in my hand as I pump my arm in a kind of frenzy. You inhale sharply at the sight of it then tighten your grip on me before leaning down to kiss me again. It’s slower and gentler this time and I give a low, breathy sigh as I push down against you.</p><p>“Spread your legs for me,” you say. Your voice is roughened by desire and the sound of it makes me pant even faster. “Wider, <em>mylimasis</em>; really open them. Although it’s true that I can barely see you when I’m holding you like this. I need to buy us a mirror, don’t I? I’ll put it at the end of the bed. I want to be able to watch you more clearly – and I want you to be able to watch yourself. You are <em>achingly</em> beautiful this way. Exquisite. So delicate yet so passionate. So debauched. Practically…edible.”</p><p>I open my mouth to protest (‘edible’…for God’s sake) and you smirk a bit then press your fingers over it to stop me before sliding round again to grip hold of my throat. I gasp at the sudden sense of pressure and you duck your head to run your tongue along it in a hot wet swipe.</p><p>“Look how slim your neck is,” you say approvingly. “All these little curves of bone. They slot into my hand so perfectly it’s as if it was made for me to hold. I confess, beloved, I find the idea of seeing it in a collar almost <em>unbearably</em> appealing. I could put you in it for special occasions, couldn’t I? Black leather, I think: something profane and beautiful to stand out against all this pale skin.”</p><p>My eyes promptly snap open. “No,” I say sharply. “Don’t you <em>dare</em>.”</p><p>You make an amused noise then shift your head further down so you can rhythmically rub your cheek against mine. “It’s all right, little wild thing. Be calm. I know you’d never allow it.”</p><p>“No I would not. No way.”</p><p>“I know,” you reply, almost dreamily. “Just let me keep the image for myself to savour privately. Such a striking image, Will. You’d look sublime in the intensity of the moment: so deeply aroused, yet so sweetly humiliated, doing your very best not to enjoy it yet helpless to prevent yourself. I’d use oil to prepare you, I think. I’d apply it very slowly with my fingertips then make you spread your legs apart so I could watch it glistening in the candlelight. Just imagine how beautiful and vulnerable you would look in your collar: quivering with anticipation for the moment you’d feel me slide inside you and show you who you really belong to. Your head would be tipped down with the weight of the leather, throat exposed like a young martyr, your skin covered with a sheen of perspiration that would make it seem to glow.” You pause again then run a finger along the edge of my cheekbone. “I’m fascinated by your skin. Have I ever told you that? It’s pale without being pallid and has such a creamy, luminous quality that’s warm and smooth to the touch. Just like ivory. Or even bone…”</p><p>Despite being fully clothed you’re grown so hard that I can feel the hot thick line of your cock pressing against my spine and the sensation turns me on so much I could nearly scream with it. Fortunately you seem to sense my urgency because you promptly lower your head then thrust your tongue deep into my mouth at the same exact same moment your fingertips push upwards to rub against my prostate. I moan almost wildly then angle my neck into a painful twist to pillage your mouth, clawing against your shoulder with one hand while fisting almost brutally at my cock with the other. Your fingers are so slippery they’re gliding in with no effort at all: your hand withdrawing nearly all the way, lingering a few seconds, then pushing straight back in as my cock spasms in my hand with a hot rush of pre-come. Oh fuck, you’re buried <em>so</em> deep inside me now. You’ll be able to feel how tight I’m getting; feel the way I’m clenching helplessly around your fingers like I’m trying to grip onto you. You must know I’m about to come.</p><p>“No, don’t hold back,” you say when you notice how I’ve started to bite my lip to stifle the sounds I’m making. “I like seeing you lose control. I <em>adore</em> it. You have no idea. Just take it, <em>mylimasis</em>. You want it don’t you? Take it deeper. That’s it; that’s perfect. Now arch your back. Imagine you’re laid out across my desk again, displaying this beautiful body to me. You’re afraid, aren’t you? You’re concerned I might be too much for you to take. Yet you’re still <em>so</em> excited. You know you’re about to feel me inside you for the very first time.”</p><p>You’ve wrapped your arm around my chest now: rocking me in the same rhythm as you’re moving your hand and easily able to take my weight to push me down at the exact moment you bring your finger up. I give a sharp cry, exposing my throat so you can scrape your teeth across it then frantically rocking my hips against the long slide of your fingers as another stream of pre-come spills over my fist.</p><p>“Yes, just imagine it,” you say caressingly. “Imagine it the same way you did back then. You’re about to be stretched open then filled up, and you’re going to love every single shameful second of it. You can feel yourself trembling can’t you? You’re leaking so much you’ve left a damp patch on my carpet; you know I can see it too and it’s humiliating. You wish you could stop yourself doing it, but you can’t – your body is giving you away. And now I’m standing behind you, taking hold of your hips: savouring those last few moments before I sink deep inside that tight, trembling body and take total possession of it. It’s going to happen any moment, my love. Are you ready? I’m going to show you that you belong to me; that you’re <em>mine – </em>that you’ve always been mine. I’m going to give you what you want, I promise. Any second now. You’re already so close to the edge aren’t you?  All that’s needed is a little push to send you spinning over the side. Just…one…little…push…”</p><p>You crook your finger upwards as you’re speaking, expertly exploring and caressing before pressing down hard with your thumb at the exact same time. I give a breathy moan in response then gasp out your name: tensing, quivering, then going totally rigid as I feel my hips give a final frantic jolt. </p><p>“Perfect,” you say reverently, pressing rapturous kisses against any part of my face you can reach. “My beautiful boy. <em>Yes</em>. Here it is.”</p><p>“Oh God,” I pant out. “I can’t…I'm going to…Oh Hannibal, <em>fuck</em>. Oh<em>…</em>I’m coming, oh God I’m coming, I'm coming…I…”</p><p>The sensation’s so overwhelming I collapse back against your chest and you wait until it’s finally over before giving a last, slow thrust with your finger. My cock promptly twitches again and I make a soft moaning noise as you press a kiss against my forehead then retrieve some tissues to wipe my stomach clean. It feels a bit infantilising and normally I’d be annoyed by it, but this time I’m so boneless and spaced-out I just let you. Your legs are also tangled with mine in a way that’s uncomfortable, but even sorting that out seems too much trouble so I just give them a half-hearted prod instead. Anyway, I don’t really mind.  If I’m honest I’ve got a bit of a fascination with your legs – which is something I’d never admit under pain of death, although isn’t necessarily a bad thing considering you’re so tall and rangy that most of your body seems to be made up of limbs. They’re extremely strong and well-muscled while still managing to stay lithe and sculpted, a bit like a dancer’s or an athlete’s would be. Come to think of it your wrists and hands are the exact same way: it’s as if your natural build is slimmer and more statuesque than the powerful outer covering implies.</p><p>You now finish cleaning me up then drop a rather playful kiss against my abdomen. “An unorthodox technique,” you say smugly, “but therapeutic nonetheless. You seem a bit more relaxed now, <em>mylimasis</em>. It does you good to let the noise in your head go quiet for a while and allow your instincts to take over.”</p><p>I mumble something incoherent in response then allow myself my usual quick panic over how much of that the neighbours might have heard, despite being far too late to do anything about it (I actually feel a bit sorry for our neighbours sometimes…they’d probably have a more peaceful time living above a meth lab). You lean back against the bed yourself, briefly falling silent again as you gently stroke my damp hair off my forehead.</p><p>“In all seriousness though,” you finally add, “I wish you felt more able to be open with me about what’s troubling you.” You certainly <em>sound</em> serious when you say this – unusually so – and I crack open my eyes to look at you. You gaze back at me for a few seconds then give the tiniest hint of a shrug. “You’re so fiercely independent, Will. It makes you reluctant to ask for help when you need it, but try to remember what I told you before. Real strength is having the courage to seek assistance – the courage to risk being vulnerable in front of others. Your vulnerability is the source of some of your greatest power.”</p><p>I promptly close my eye again then give a small, restless sigh. “Yeah, I remember,” I say wearily. “Only it’s a lot easier in theory than practice.”</p><p>“Something else to grow accustomed to then,” you reply in the same soft voice. “Perhaps I ought to lead by example? I’ll have to work harder in presenting you with some of my own more vulnerable aspects.”</p><p>“Do you have even have those?” I say – and then regret it almost immediately, because of course I know that you do. The problem is they tend to be so destructive that it’s easier to pretend they don’t exist. Only they <em>do</em> exist and there’s no doubt you share them; even your obvious restlessness at my absence today was a sign. In fact it illustrates your point about vulnerability not being a sign of weakness, because when you show me how much you need me you’re simply having the courage to be open. You’re telling me that I have the power to hurt you, yet you’re still trusting me not to – even though you know that I could. In silent acknowledgement I now reach up to cradle your face, gently stroking the side of your jaw with my thumb to show I understand.   </p><p>“I want you to be happy and peaceful,” is all you say. “And free of fear.”</p><p>“Yes, I know…I know you do.”</p><p>“So please stop worrying about Jack – or anyone else for that matter – and give yourself more credit for how impeccably you’re able to govern the people around you. I would even go so far as to say you were able to govern <em>me</em>…or at least closer to it than anyone else has managed.”</p><p>You sound so grudging at the last part that I can’t help laughing and you catch my eye then start to smile too. “Yes, it is quite the accomplishment,” you say. “Although you are a rare breed so warrant rare distinctions. Machiavelli would be proud of you Will; you play an admirable game. You have never once attempted to win by force what you were able to win by deception.”</p><p>“That’s just a polite way of saying I’m good at manipulating people.”</p><p>“Not exactly. Only that you have been extremely successful at convincing the world of your inherent righteousness. You have crafted a mask of immaculate proportions. Like Richard III on a modern stage.” You give a vaguely sinister smile, the quote sounding even more ominous than usual when delivered in your smoky voice: “<em>And thus I clothe my naked villainy, With odd old ends stolen out of holy writ, And seem a saint, when most I play the Devil</em>.”</p><p>“Actually,” I say dryly, “that sounds more like you.”</p><p>“With an important exception,” you reply, beginning to stroke my hair again. “In my case, camouflage was from choice rather than necessity. Your other conquests, however…for them it was <em>not</em> a matter of choice. The Great Red Dragons and the Matthew Browns of the world. You know, I could almost pity such creatures. No wonder they pursued you: the one person capable of unmasking them. Having perfected one’s disguise, it’s only natural to seek out someone who is not deceived by it. Yet this is an instance where you should also remember Baudelaire’s advice, Will – because the finest trick the Devil ever played was to persuade the world he didn’t exist.”</p><p>I groan impatiently then fling my arm over my face. “Okay, I get it,” I say. “Just give it a rest can’t you? I’m not in the mood.”</p><p>You smile again then pull me closer and lower your head until our foreheads are touching. “Forgive me,” you say fondly. “I’m annoying you aren’t I? Sometimes I get absorbed in my own musings and it makes me forget how preoccupied you feel. You wish to rest and occupy your wonderful mind with less disturbing topics. And yet, you know, there’s no reason to dread the Devil…” Your tone is almost caressing now, your lips slowly ghosting the side of my jaw. “God delights in shame and self-reproach, but the Devil will always celebrate the darkness and intricacy of who we <em>really</em> are. Destruction, debauchery, the quest for power: the temptations he presents to humankind don’t contradict our impulses, they merely complement and encourage them. What is the Devil’s concern, after all, except with our ability to show faithfulness to our true character? Fidelity to our most authentic self?”</p><p>“Ugh, you’re impossible,” I say, half-annoyed and half-amused. “Do you know that? You never know how to quit while you’re ahead.” With some effort I manage to haul myself upright then clamber on top of you until I’m straddling your knee; you smile again then take hold of my waist to help me. “Although I’ll give you one thing, Dr Lecter,” I add, “which is that you know how to make an interesting case. Shall I tell you what all that sounded like to me?”</p><p>“What did it sound like to you, Will? Dazzle me with your insight.”</p><p>“It sounds,” I reply, carefully drawing out each word. “Just. Like. Therapy.”</p><p>“Just like therapy,” you repeat, never once breaking eye contact. “Indeed. What a disastrously clever boy you are.”</p><p>“So take my advice and quit while you’re ahead. Because appealing to my ‘authentic self’ is not going to convince me that staying here to face Jack is a good idea.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t presume to attempt to convince you.” You give another faint smile then take hold of my hand to lightly kiss the back of it. “Besides, it won’t be necessary – because you are going to decide it all by yourself.”</p><p>A part of me yearns to snap back that I won’t, only I don’t want another argument so soon after the last one. Of course at some point we’ll <em>have</em> to have a conversation about it: a proper one, not whatever the hell this is with all its excess roleplay and metaphor. But that moment isn’t right now, and until I’ve got a clearer sense of how to manage it there’s no point trying to force the issue. Not that I intend to admit this uncertainty to you in the meantime. After all, years of experience have shown how useful it can be to play along with whatever game you’ve created while letting you think you’ve gained more of an upper hand than you actually have.</p><p>To prove this to myself I now raise a hand to take hold of your throat, firm enough to apply some pressure while teasing enough to let you know I’m not being totally serious. “Yeah, I guess <em>your</em> therapy is very unique isn’t it?” I say. “Very tailored. Because ‘to constantly deny one’s true nature is one of the greatest acts of self-violence that it’s possible to inflict.’”</p><p>“Did I tell you that? I suppose I might have done. It sounds like the type of thing I would say.”</p><p>“You know you did.”</p><p>“Then you should listen to me, shouldn’t you?”</p><p>“No,” I say wryly. “Not really.”</p><p>You smile again, tipping your head back to invite better access to your throat. “Certainly you should. And <em>that</em> is why you are going to change your mind about staying, because you know that living a lie reduces you to one. Consider, for example, my previous analogy. God is the one who tells us what to think – and how to act, and who to believe – but the Devil compels us how to <em>feel.</em> Then, after that, he preaches how all our human feelings are acceptable.” You pause again then deliberately catch my eye as your mouth quirks itself into another inscrutable smile. “There is something so horribly indulgent and self-serving about shame or guilt. The way we reprove and accuse ourselves before anyone else has the opportunity to do so, then seek a sense of virtue in it. As the expression goes, it is not the priest who absolves the sinner but the confession itself.”</p><p>“So that’s why they call the Devil ‘the Great Seducer’?” I roll my eyes at you then lean further forward, slowly rocking my hips against yours as I skim my lips against the side of your jaw. “Everyone wants to dance with the devil.”</p><p>“Indeed,” you say lightly. “Then it appears Nietzsche was right and God is dead. Long live Satan.”</p><p>You sound a bit <em>too</em> pleased with yourself about this: I give you a quick frown, despite knowing it won’t be enough to stop you. “Do you want to know why?” you murmur, taking hold of my hips to encourage me to grind even harder. “It’s because destruction feels <em>good.</em> And why shouldn’t it? It does to God. I doubt very much that He’d begrudge us, because killing satisfies Him too – He does it all the time.”</p><p>This is a well-worn theme with you and one I’ve never been totally comfortable with. I can even remember you talking about it in our previous life: the way your eyes gleamed as you spoke while the familiar Sphinxy smile flickered across your face. <em>Only last week in Texas He dropped a church roof on the heads of 34 of His worshippers just as they were grovelling for Him</em>…Of course this is also a recurring risk of playing these sorts of verbal games with you, because you have never have any restraint for breaking the rules with a particularly underhand move.</p><p>“Original sin,” I say, and there’s a distinct edge to my voice. “I think you should leave it now Hannibal. You’re taking your metaphor too far.”</p><p>“Am I?” you ask thoughtfully. “Perhaps so; perhaps not. Or perhaps it’s simply the case that we <em>all</em> need to learn to live a little. After all, the knowledge that our lives could end at any moment frees us to appreciate the beauty and horror of everything the world has to offer.” You give me a long, slow glance from beneath your eyelashes and I have a sudden urge to laugh. It occurs to me that this might actually be your idea of <em>flirting</em>.  “I’ve no doubt that Jack would agree with me,” you add, “because he knows as well as we do that this is the ultimate gift a predator offers to its prey. A predator represents mortality, so compels its victim to live as fully and fruitfully as possible on the understanding they could lose their life at any time. <em>Carpe diem</em>, Will. A predator encourages us to celebrate and sanctify each minute that we have, and they mostly do so without us even realising it. A secret Devil in a mask who walks among us and manipulates our beliefs about the world…a mask just like <em>Il Macellaio’s</em>.” This time you leave a longer pause then lightly scrape your teeth against my throat. “Or even the Chesapeake Ripper.”</p><p>It’s not like you’re expressing anything I haven’t already heard, yet somehow such a ruthlessly casual reference to your past behaviour still makes me recoil without being able to fully explain why. “Okay, enough,” I say sharply. “Just stop. You always…” Then I find myself pausing too, because really – it’s so difficult to define exactly what it <em>is</em> that you do. “You always push things too far,” I conclude; aware, even as I’m saying it, how inadequate it sounds.</p><p>“Yes indeed.” By now your smile has finally turned in on itself, as if it’s enjoying some private joke. “And yet you do too, beloved; and doubtless will do so again in the future. Pushing and pushing Will…one day right over the edge.”</p><p>I tighten my grip on your shoulders, this time just enough to hurt. “I. Said. <em>Enough</em>.”</p><p>“And I heard you,” you reply without missing a beat. “I just enacted your advice a little differently to how you intended.” My eyebrows gather together in a warning frown and you finally relent and lift up your hand to smooth them back into place. “Very well,” you add in a gentler voice. “Enough. Your Uncle Jack is not here right now, and if the news reports are anything to go by will not be so for at least another week. Tell me what you want to talk about instead.”</p><p>I silently clamber off you and roll onto the bed again so I can lie on my back; you smile down at me then reach across to arrange the sheet around my shoulders until I’m snugly covered up. “How about you?” I say finally. “And how completely unbearable you are.”</p><p>“If you wish.” You make an amused noise then lean over me again so you can run your finger along the bridge of my nose. “I suppose that would be substantive enough for a long and interesting conversation. But before we begin, I’d ask you to please remember my earlier confession.”</p><p>“Oh yeah – that one where you compared me to a dog?”</p><p>“The very same,” you say fondly. “Which is that while I may not always be equal to the task of caretaker, my intentions towards you are entirely benign. I’ve only ever wanted what’s best for you.”</p><p>Of course a more truthful version of this statement would be ‘<em>I’ve only ever wanted <span class="u">I </span>think is best for you’</em>, but I know it’s not a distinction you’d be willing to recognise. As far as you’re concerned what you think and what I feel are fundamentally the same – or at least they should be after a bit of manipulation, deftly applied like lacquer then left to set and solidify until I’ve come round to your point of view without even realising it. I suppose it’s always been that way. Even back in the days when I was still trying to do the right thing I was never so efficient or successful as I was when I had you inside my mind to pull the strings and guide my final design. We’re identically different, are we? You and me.</p><p>In the resulting silence I now drag my hand across my face then stare determinedly at the ceiling while doing my best not to catch your eye. It’s the same dilemma we’ve always had, and moments like this are a grim reminder that when you said you were prepared to accept my limitations you weren’t really telling the truth. Not that I’m surprised by this. After all it’s not like you’ve <em>ever</em> told the truth, and it was inevitable that once I’d been lured onto your side you wouldn’t be content until you’d tried to pull me even further. I’m like a plant that you want to keep sprinkling with little drops of blood to make it grow. Perhaps we’re just destined to remain stuck in this same gridlock? Me on one side and you on the other, the immovable force and the unstoppable object, each with different ideas of how our future should look and neither entirely prepared to compromise. Deep down I know it’s one of the reasons the thought of marriage makes me feel so wary, but regardless I’ll always find myself drifting back to the same position. It’s a stance that’s contradictory in its own right, but it’s also clear enough to reassure me whenever I feel at odds with myself: namely the simple fact that we might be incredibly wrong together, yet we’re also so deeply and supremely <em>right</em>.</p><p>My eyes now finally meet yours and you smile at me rather sadly. “Don’t look so troubled Will,” you say, and it’s the sort of gentle, pensive voice that I only rarely hear you use. “I know you have a lot of conflicts in you – and I know you’re not ready to confide in me about them – but they’re still not anything to grieve over. You feel the weight of it every time you cast off morality and obey your instincts, yet your conflicts have always had the skill to wrench ugliness out of the world and leave something beautiful in its place. Haven’t I always told you that you are an alchemist? Indeed, I find the synchronicity of the whole thing to be incredibly fascinating. Because regardless of what you do in the future, your actions so far have transformed what is unworthy and useless into something artistic. They set into motion a train of events that yields beauty and purpose.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” I say quietly.</p><p>You smile again then lean down to press another kiss against my forehead. Your hand is on my face again now: palm cupped gently beneath my chin so you can stroke your fingertips across my cheekbone. “Because,” you reply, “they brought you here to me.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next few days are like something from the Phony War in which we tiptoe round each other on our best behaviour while secretly trying to out-do the other person over who can be the most good-natured and considerate. Lots of smiling, compromising and exaggerated politeness (<em>‘Oh no, you first – I insist!’</em><em>)</em> and so on and so forth. It’s actually a bit ridiculous, and not even entirely sincere. Privately I suspect that the gravity of the argument over Jack has unsettled us both. Only neither of us seems to want to address it, so rather than acknowledge what’s happened it’s like we’re trying to erase it completely by acting like something out a TV sitcom who never argues at all. </p><p>At least that’s part of it. God knows what you’re ever thinking, but my own rationale is admittedly far more paranoid: namely a neurotic, gnawing fantasy that you might get caught and how I wouldn’t want to feel I’d spent our final weeks together being a massive dick to you. This is another thing that’s ridiculous, because it’s not like I even seriously think it’ll happen (of course it won’t; I won’t <em>let</em> it happen). Even so, it appears there’s a subconscious part of me who’s completely obsessed with the idea and is using it to steer my behaviour without any sort of permission. I’m sure you’ve noticed something odd in how I’m acting and it’s fortunate you don’t ask about it because what would I say? ‘<em>What do you mean I’m being nicer than usual? Isn’t it obvious? It’s because I don’t want you to spend the years in your next glass box remembering how I was a massive dick to you</em>.’ But then of course I never ask you for an explanation either, so while a mature discussion would no doubt be the best way forward it seems we’re just a pair of emotionally stunted Man Children who can’t quite manage it. To be fair you’re always more outwardly affectionate than I am so your own changes aren’t as noticeable, although they’re definitely still there. I frown for a few seconds, trying to think of the right word to describe it. <em>‘Devoted’</em> is a bit over the top. Possibly <em>‘attentive’</em>? I think about this for a few more seconds then frown again because it’s not quite right either. Maybe it’s something in between the two? But whatever the word is I think you’re mostly just happy I haven’t walked out on you, which makes me suspect you’re not quite as secure about things as I always assumed you were. It’s ironic really. I spend so long obsessing about our relationship – and how difficult you are to deal with – that it never really occurs to me how you might do the same.</p><p>If your own changes are focussed on being affectionate then mine are made from sterner stuff and favour the practical and pragmatic. I suppose this difference was pretty predictable, because you can be positively lavish in dispensing attention when you want to whereas I tend to be a bit more….brisk. As such my campaign Not To Be A Massive Dick mostly manifests itself through doing things: fetching items before you have a chance to ask for them, offering multiple backrubs, and even attempting to make you several meals. If the situation were reversed I’d probably find it annoying, but I think you seem to like being fussed over. Possibly it’s your entitled, aristocratic side coming out. In fact it almost certainly is: having a pseudo-servant is probably a dream come true. In this respect the fetching and carrying seems like a particular success, although I inevitably wind up feeling self-conscious over the cooking because it’s so woefully below your own standards. It makes me think I should probably ask you to teach me sometime because I’m sure I could learn and I know you’d love to show me. But at the moment there’s no way I can rival your <em>haute cuisine</em> and it feels overly fake and pathetic to try (not to mention potentially hazardous, seeing how some days I can’t even seem to operate a potato peeler without mutilating myself in the process). Instead I revert to the relics from my old life, which tend towards the sort of stodgy homely staples that form the culinary frontier of single men the world over: bowls of chili, over-done steaks, and volcanic scarlet sauce on writhing pasta that masquerades as spaghetti. It’s hard to believe you actually enjoy eating this crap but I’m pretty sure you appreciate the effort. As a further display of goodwill I even roll up my sleeves and repair the extractor fan in the kitchen for you, which is one of those random tasks I’ve been meaning to do for ages and never managed to find time for. I find it boring, yet also strangely restful, which is a feeling I often have when doing anything mechanical. In fact in the midst of so much uncertainty the logical workings of pipes and valves are rather reassuring in how predictable they are and I feel like I’ll almost be disappointed when the job is over.</p><p>You always enjoy watching me doing manual work and sure enough you materialise in the kitchen a few minutes later, pulling up a chair then pretending to read a newspaper (but really so you can take constant sneaky glances over the top of it). After a while this scrutiny grows annoying so in revenge I ask you to help me by passing me tools, despite it being obvious that you don’t know what any of them are and are having to make an educated guess. It’s actually pretty funny, so eventually I start asking for ones I don’t need – and then imaginary ones that don’t actually exist, just to fuck with you.</p><p>“Sonic screwdriver, please,” I say.</p><p>There’s a long pause: I smirk slightly into the depths of the cabinet. “You know you don’t have to do that yourself?” you finally reply. “The letting agency can take care of it.”</p><p>I suppose this is a legitimate point. But contacting the agency would also mean contacting Matteo, and while he’s recently been demoted on my mental list of problems to make way for Jack the reference to him still makes me frown.  “It’s fine,” I say firmly. “I don’t mind.”</p><p>“Well, you don’t <em>have</em> to.”</p><p>“You could always just do it.” I wait a few more seconds then finally decide to show a bit of mercy and reach into the toolbox myself to retrieve a wrench. “Oh sorry I forgot. You can’t.” I turn round then give you a brief smirk. “Bit useless really, aren’t you?”</p><p>Behind me I can hear you settle back into your chair again. “It would appear so,” you say happily. “I’m evidently not as technically-minded as you are.”</p><p>“Evidently not.” You always pronounce ‘technically-minded’ is such a fastidious way that it manages to sound like an insult; I allow myself a fond, private eye-roll before rummaging in the toolbox again for some bolts. “I suppose you think you’re above that sort of thing?”</p><p>“Do you?” you reply with exaggerated sincerity. “Whatever gave you that idea?”</p><p>I give a huff of laughter then push the cabinet closed and lean over to flick on the switch of the fan. It comes roaring back to life with a contented purring noise and I have a few moments of genuine satisfaction before levering round to climb off the counter – only to let out a startled ‘<em>oof’</em> noise a few seconds later when you abruptly take hold of me to lift me back up again. The unexpectedness of it makes me laugh and I swing my legs forward so I can wrap them round your waist, tugging you hard enough to nearly make you lose your balance.</p><p>“Got you,” I say.</p><p>“So it would seem.” You smile a bit then reach out to adjust my glasses back into their proper position. “That was a very underhand move. What a little villain you are.”</p><p>“What a pushover <em>you </em>are.” I move my face down until I can press it into the curve of your shoulder. “You’re also annoying.”</p><p>“And you are charming,” you say. “You’ve been extremely considerate in the past few days.”</p><p>This makes me clear my throat. It sounds very awkward – mostly because it is. “No I haven’t,” I say. “Not really.”</p><p>“Yes: really. And it is both noted and appreciated. Might I ask why?”</p><p>I stare back at you then blink a few times. <em>Because I don’t want you to spend the years in your next glass box remembering how I was a massive dick to you. </em>“I don’t know,” I say vaguely. “Do I need a reason?”</p><p>“Not especially. I suppose you can be as capricious as you want to be.” You smirk a bit then give me a playful tap on the side of the noise. “It is beauty’s privilege.”</p><p>“Oh God, shut up,” I say. “You should be grateful I don’t turn round and vomit over you.”</p><p>“Probably.” You smile again before leaning back and adding in a more serious voice: “Just as long as the consideration is from choice and not because you’re acting from a place of…”</p><p>“A place of what?”</p><p>This time you pause yourself; it’s obvious you’re trying to be tactful and find the right word. “Of fear,” you eventually say.</p><p>Internally I feel myself sigh. I suppose it was inevitable you’d work it out; I must be even more transparent than I realised. But then I’ve also got a pretty good idea for why <em>your</em> behaviour has changed and I won’t address that with you either. We’re clearly both as useless as each other. Although we’re hardly a model for healthy relationships so I suppose this isn’t exactly surprising. After all, most people feel they’ve made progress with a partner when they’re ready to live together, whereas our first sign of positive development was reaching a point where neither of us wanted to actively kill the other.</p><p>“Look, it’s fine,” I reply, even though it’s not. “I’m done here now. Do you want to…I don’t know. Watch TV or something?”</p><p>“Television?” you repeat.</p><p>You sound faintly anguished and it reminds me, possibly for the millionth time, of how incredibly different our social backgrounds are. You’re so cultured and refined in your interests (well…most of your interests) and I barely have a single shit to give about any of that stuff. Compared to you it’s like I’m just a few degrees removed from keg stands and beer pong. “Or music or, I don’t know…whatever you like.” I shrug, slightly apologetic, as my reserve of cultured interests abruptly runs dry. “I’m just not really in the mood to talk.” </p><p>“When are you ever?” you reply in the same fond way. “It’s fortunate for me you’re so easy on the eye, as you are a positive <em>famine</em> for the ears.”</p><p>“Yeah I know,” I say. “Probably because I can’t ever get a word in.”</p><p>This makes you laugh – although I notice you don’t even <em>try</em> to deny it – before finally letting go of me so you can saunter off to the cupboard to retrieve a bottle of wine and two glasses. You then tuck the whole lot under your arm and saunter off again; this time towards the living room to light some candles (which is an indulgently dramatic habit I’ve never been able to wean you away from, despite how much simpler it would be to just turn on a goddamn lamp). I follow behind you then fling myself across the sofa so I can lie on my back and brood for a bit until you finally return again to pour out the wine. Unlike you (a hardened grape nerd) I’ve never been able to work up much enthusiasm for it, although am trying to show a bit more interest for your sake. Admittedly these attempts also have a limited success rate, and after I put a bottle of Merlot by the fire to get it to room temperature you looked so appalled that you’ve started politely asking me to show less interest (or preferably none at all). Even so, this bottle is actually pretty good. It’s rich and dark with a pleasantly spicy undertone, and two glasses quickly turn into three when you suddenly stand up again to change the music. Normally your tastes tend to favour the heavy and dramatic – Verdi, Dvořák,or Wagner; lots of crashing brass and shrieking percussion – but this time it’s soft and melodious with a little yearning undertone to the lower notes. I can’t remember who the composer is although I’m sure I’ve heard you play it before in your old house. Briefly I close my eyes, trying and failing to dredge up the memory. In the grand scheme of things it’s not even that long ago, yet so much has happened since then it feels like a different lifetime – a gauzy, dreamlike interlude that happened to someone else.</p><p>“This is nice,” I say vaguely. My eyes are still closed but I can tell you’re nearby from the sound of your breathing. You don’t respond though, so I finally crack open an eye and discover that you’re actually stood straight over me while holding out your hand. “What?” I ask, squinting upwards at you from beneath my hair. “What do you want?”</p><p>“I want you to dance with me,” you say. “Now.”</p><p>The idea of this is so surreal that I start to laugh. “You must be joking? You’re joking aren’t you?” You start to smile but keep your hand exactly where it is. “No,” I add firmly. “No <em>way</em>.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“Because – because it’s dumb.” Then I realise this is open invitation for something torturously pedantic (<em>‘But why is it ‘dumb’ Will? Define dumb…’</em>) so hastily add: “I don’t like dancing.”</p><p>You raise a single eyebrow: it’s clear you’re not buying it. “Is that so?” you reply. “I find it hard to believe you’ve done it often enough to know whether you like it or not.”</p><p>“Look I just know, all right? Anyway, I don’t want to.”</p><p>By this point anyone else would have taken the hint but you just keep standing there with your hand a few inches from my face. “I think you just feel self-conscious,” you say. “Which is a waste of emotion, because there’s no one here to see you but me.” I stubbornly close my eyes again in an attempt to dismiss you, but I can still hear the smile in your voice as you add: “I warn you, I am quite determined.”</p><p>For a few seconds there’s silence and I’m starting to think you might have actually given up when you abruptly dart forward to tug me to my feet. I let out a noise that’s intended to be dignified and imposing, only it ends up going wrong halfway through and instead comes out as a kind of screech (an image of a pterodactyl unhelpfully comes to mind).</p><p>“Stop it!” I say. “I don’t want to. I don’t want you pulling me round the room.”</p><p>“Then you may pull me around the room instead. I give you full permission to lead.”</p><p>As you’re speaking you manoeuvre my arms until they’re hooked round you then snugly drape your own across my shoulders (me still wriggling and protesting the entire time with assorted variations of ‘No…this is stupid...stop it you maniac’). “There you go,” you say. “You dance beautifully.”</p><p>I begin to laugh despite myself then finally admit defeat and let my cheek rest against your chest. You tighten your grip in response, your palm shifting downwards until it’s resting on the small of my back as you gently but firmly turn me around to the music. “This is <em>so</em> stupid,” I add. “If you ever tell anyone I will kill you.”</p><p>“Noted.”</p><p>“I don’t even mean that as a euphemism. I will literally kill you.”</p><p>“But who would I tell?” you reply. “No one here would be remotely interested.” Your greater height means you’re able to loom over me at intervals so I can’t pull away; I can’t help thinking you’re doing it on purpose. I make a huffing noise and you pause a few seconds before adding in an overly innocent voice: “Unless you think I’m going to inform on you to Jack?”</p><p>This is the first time you’ve mentioned Jack in several days and the fact you’ve chosen such a surreal context to do it in feels like a deliberate attempt to provoke me. The urge to call you out on this is briefly overwhelming, but I really don’t want another argument after we’ve been getting on so well. Besides, I’m not sure I have the energy for it. Instead I reach round and give your hair a light tug to show that I’m onto you.</p><p>“Whatever,” I say. I sound like a sulky teenager but to be honest it’s the <em>least</em> of what you deserve. “Although I’m sure you’re right. I’m sure that would definitely be Jack’s main concern following a message from <em>you</em>.”</p><p>You make a vague noise of agreement then dip your head slightly so you can press your forehead against mine. “Who knows,” you say innocently. “Perhaps it would?” </p><p>This is clearly a reference to Jack’s reaction to finding out we’re living together (that we’re…partners? Lovers? I can never decide the right word) and the way you’re trivialising such a serious threat manages to stir my simmering sense of anger all over again. You’re always so keen to push things – it’s like you can’t help yourself.</p><p>“Okay, nice try,” I snap. “But if you’re looking for an argument you can have it with yourself.”</p><p>“Not at all.” You sound so calm and measured: it’s kind of infuriating. “It’s merely an observation.”</p><p>There’s no way you’ll admit to stirring things, yet your willingness to back down is obvious and I can’t help smirking at it. You’re actually surprisingly easy to control at times; I’m probably close to the point that I could author a <em>How To</em> manual for managing you most effectively. I smirk again then press up against you a little harder before tapping your hand top get your attention. You’re so close I can smell your hair; can almost imagine I feel your heartbeat against mine.</p><p>“Excuse me Dr Lecter,” I say, straight into your ear, “but enough with the tugging.”</p><p>“Was I?”</p><p>“Yes, you were. I thought you were going to let me lead? That means you have to follow.”</p><p>You make an amused sound then shift your face until it’s gently resting against the side of my head. “Indeed. You may lead me as much as you wish.”</p><p>“Good,” I say. It’s a surprising effort not to trample on your feet; your legs are so long they keep appearing at unexpected intervals. “I do wish.”</p><p>I’m not really expecting you to, but to my surprise you stop pulling straight away and obediently let me dictate the movement instead. In fact you seem extremely contented in a way that’s unusual for you, and I’m already getting pre-emptive pangs of guilt at how you’ll almost certainly ask to do this in public at some point and imagining the look of disappointment on your face when I say no. I reach up then tenderly stroke the back of your neck; a silent apology for something I haven’t even done yet.</p><p>You murmur something soft in a foreign language then brush your lips against my hair. “By the way I was being entirely sincere,” you add. “You have an excellent sense of rhythm.”  </p><p>“Do I?”</p><p>You smile again, tracing small circles against my shoulder blades before your hands slide back down my spine to take hold of my waist. “Certainly you do.”</p><p>“Oh right,” I say. “Thanks.” The praise seems genuine, but I’m convinced that with a different partner I’d probably be hopeless. In that respect I guess dancing counts as a type of communication, because with you it’s more a case of natural synchronisation and connection. There’s a need to anticipate the other person’s movement and attune with it, very fluid and aligned…perhaps not all that different to a fight? Actually, yeah, they are somewhat similar. It’s just another form of interaction and mirroring. They even call it that in movies, don’t they: <em>fight choreography</em>. And I knew from the first time we killed someone together how precisely and perfectly we could coordinate each other’s motion…</p><p>The realisation of this is startling (and, if I’m honest, vaguely unsettling) and I quickly screw my eyes closed to banish it. I don’t want to see those things right now: not the fear, or the ecstasy, or the black blood in the moonlight, not any of it. Such avoidance is hypocritical enough to make me feel ashamed of myself, but I really can’t help it because even now – even after everything that’s happened – my urge to suppress is so powerful that I’ll instinctively fall into it like the safety of clasping arms. It’s a bad habit of mine and something I’ve never really managed to break.</p><p>I must look a bit vacant because you give me a sudden nudge with your forehead. “Where have you gone?” you ask softly. “Stay here with me.”</p><p>“Sorry. I’m just…thinking about things.”</p><p>“I know, I can tell. That incendiary mind of yours; it never gives you any peace, does it?”</p><p>“Sometimes it does,” I say, skimming my hands up and down your back. Regardless of the earlier praise it’s definitely you who has the dancing skill; for someone so powerfully built you’re unexpectedly graceful and have a very precise sense of rhythm. If I’m honest I’ve surprised myself with how much I’m enjoying it. Perhaps we <em>could</em> do this in public some time…possibly.</p><p>“I suppose I shouldn’t be so flippant,” you add. “I confess, I can’t persuade myself to feel much anxiety at the thought of Jack coming here. However, I appreciate that for you it’s not a laughing matter.”</p><p>My only response to this is another humming noise (which is all the response it deserves because <em>of course</em> it isn’t a laughing matter). Then I’m tempted to remind you of all the trouble your deranged ego has caused us in the past, only can’t think of a way to do it that wouldn’t tip the line from affectionate irritation to genuine anger. It’s the kind of conversation I need to be in the right mood to have. Plus I still have a genuine hope that it’ll prove unnecessary, given that what I <em>really</em> want is to find a way to talk you out of going after Jack and let him return to America unharmed and unaware. Admittedly my plan for achieving this hasn’t progressed beyond the initial point of hatching it, but I still feel like it could be successful when the time comes. After all, I persuaded you to leave Alana alone. That seemed equally unlikely, but you still did it.</p><p>“One more thing though,” you add suddenly. “After which I promise to drop the subject. But when Jack <em>does</em> arrive, I don’t want you to be alone with him. Do you understand, Will? No contact unless I’m present as well.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say irritably. “I can’t promise you that: you know I can’t.” I scowl for a bit then give your shirt a sudden sharp tug as another thought occurs to me. “Look, I promise I’ll do my absolute best to avoid him.” I add. “But if I do end up having to meet him about <em>Il Macellaio</em> then don’t even <em>think</em> about turning up too. I mean it, Hannibal – I don’t care how well hidden you think you are.”</p><p>You don’t reply straight away, instead just running your palm across my shoulders in a rather meditative way. “I spent far too many years sharing you with Jack,” you say eventually. “I have been <em>extremely</em> generous with him, yet my generosity has its limits. He needs to understand that any attempts to acquire you again…” You pause slightly then proceed to press against my back with your fingers as if you’re punctuating each word “are-destined-to-severe-disappointment.”</p><p>Your tone is <em>just</em> playful enough to imply you’re not being serious, but I know that you are. Anyone would think Jack was an old lover coming back on the scene – although as far as you’re concerned perhaps it’s not that far off. You’re so incredibly poised most of the time it’s hard to think of you experiencing the same insecurities as anyone else, but admittedly I don’t think that’s what this is. You’re not speaking from a place of insecurity as opposed to a powerful sense of possessiveness and resentment, and even the idea of trying to break all that down makes me feel exhausted.</p><p>“Look, let’s just drop it,” I say wearily. “I’m tired. We can talk about it later.” Which of course we’ll have to, although God knows what <em>that</em> particular conversation will be like.</p><p>“If you insist.” You sound sympathetic now, although I’m not certain how genuine this is. “It’s a real dilemma for you, isn’t it? You yearn for conflict yet wish to avoid it.”</p><p>“Hardly,” I snap. “It’s trouble that I want to avoid.”</p><p>“Same difference.”</p><p>“No, it’s really not.”</p><p>“Von Goethe had a suitable summary,” you continue. You sound very thoughtful; sometimes I wonder if you even listen to a single word I say. “<em>Two souls, alas, are dwelling in my breast, And one is striving to forsake its brother</em>.” You brush your mouth against my ear. “Rather like you.”</p><p>“Oh just be quiet.” I lightly nip my teeth against your throat to make you stop talking then close my eyes again and press up even closer against your chest. “You’re always ringing that same bell.”</p><p>As I’m speaking I stumble slightly and it suddenly occurs to me that I might be a bit drunk. This seems incredibly unfair. It’s not like I’ve even had that much; just two glasses (maybe three) but on an empty stomach it’s always fatal. I sigh to myself then decide to use it as an excuse to cling onto you a bit tighter. “Remind me to quote that back at you when you’re sat in the back of Jack’s squad car,” I add bitterly.</p><p>This makes you laugh. “Thank you in advance,” you say. “I’m sure I will be very much obliged to you. Although I hardly think you’ll <em>need</em> reminding: I have no doubt you’ll take a huge amount of pleasure in telling me so.”</p><p>Deep down I know that the humour is just another denial strategy, although managing to refer to it at all without an argument still feels like some sort of progress. “Yeah, Jack’s gonna be <em>pissed</em>,” I say. “He’ll put you in a box then ship it on the first flight back to America. Then he’ll fly me back straight after you…like I was your luggage.”</p><p>“He had better do that. Otherwise I would refuse to go.”</p><p>“Just you wait,” I say mournfully. “They’ll put you in another glass box. Only a <em>worse</em> one.”</p><p>“And how would they contrive to make it worse?”</p><p>“I’m sure they’d think of something,” I add in a more ominous voice.</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“I know…maybe they’d put vermin in it? Something that would bite you.”</p><p>“Mmm, imagine that.”</p><p>“Something vicious.” I go quiet for a few moments, trying to think of a good example. “Like…like weasels,” I finally add. “<em>Weasels</em>. And vipers.”</p><p>“Weasels and vipers?”</p><p>“Yes,” I reply with dignity. “That’s what I said.”</p><p>You go quiet for a few seconds before finally giving up and starting to laugh. “You are drunker than I thought you were,” you say. “When did you last eat?”</p><p>I screw my face up with the effort of trying to work it out; from the expression on your own it seems like you’re experiencing a serious struggle not to start laughing again at the sight of it. “I dunno,” I say eventually. “Maybe yesterday.”</p><p>“Then you need some food.”</p><p>“Nah, I’ll be all right.” In my head this sounds heroic, like I’m persisting through unspeakable adversity; I leave a suitably dramatic silence as if waiting for the applause to break out. “I’ll just get some water.”</p><p>“You need <em>food</em>,” you say. “I know you lose your appetite under stress, but you can’t stay healthy without proper nutrition.”</p><p>“Oh give it a rest can’t you? You’re not a doctor anymore.” I pause then glower at you from beneath my hair. “You were struck off, remember? <em>Twice</em>.”</p><p>“Yes,” you say calmly. “I’m aware. But I don’t have to be certified to know you that you need to eat.”</p><p>“I do eat.”</p><p>“Not at the moment you don’t. Eating implies vigour. At the very most you could be said to nibble.”</p><p>“I do not <em>nibble</em>,” I say with excessive dignity. “You’re the one who nibbles.” I go quiet for a few seconds then emit a weird snorting noise. “Hannibbles.”</p><p>You wait patiently until I’ve stopped cackling (this admittedly takes a while) then repeat in the same calm voice: “You should have some food.”</p><p>“No. Like I said – I’ll have some water. I mean I’m not <em>drunk</em> exactly. I’m just, I’m…Hmm. What’s the word for being half-drunk?”</p><p>“I think you are what could be described as ‘tipsy’.”</p><p>As soon as you say this I can feel my face fall. Tipsy sounds like a character from a Disney film or a name for a kitten. There is precisely zero dignity in being tipsy: I’d rather be bombed or smashed. It’s <em>cringe</em>, is what it is. In fact, the cringe levels are so extreme they exceed the existing capacity of science to measure them; possibly new forms of calculation will have to be invented. I now get a bit preoccupied with deciding what these might be (quantum cringe…Pythagoras’ cringe theorum…cringe = mc²) before finally remembering to open my mouth again to inform you of some of this. But before I can manage it the music cuts out and you immediately hold us very still, your head tilted slightly like you’re listening to the sound of our breathing in the suddenly silent room.</p><p>“The irrepressible Will Graham,” you murmur, straight into my ear. “So fragile yet so fierce and resolute. I adore it, Will. I am <em>captivated</em> by it.”</p><p>“Oh shut up,” I say grumpily. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“Yes you do. You’re feeling so afraid of what could happen, yet you’re going to face the fear regardless – then just sigh and shrug whenever I try to praise you for it. Your courage is impressive, <em>mylimasis</em>. You’re so beautifully broken yet never, ever broken-spirited.”</p><p>“No, I’m not.”</p><p>“But you are. The two things are not the same – you must realise that? All these pieces of you, yet you’re not truly fragmented.”</p><p>“Oh <em>do</em> shut up.”</p><p>“I shall not,” you reply with another smile. “Let me rhapsodise about you in peace. You deserve it, Will. The way the light shines through your slivers and cracks…luminous in all your damage. What is it going to take for you to appreciate yourself?”</p><p>“Mmm, let me guess. I suppose you want me to say ‘you’?”</p><p>Instead of replying you just let your smile broaden a bit further bending down to kiss my forehead. “I want you to be safe and happy,” you add in a more serious voice. “So once again, I shall give you my word that I will never put myself in a situation that would risk us being separated.”</p><p>“Yeah well, you better not,” I say gruffly.  I can feel a surge of emotion at the thought of it which catches my throat and makes my eyes sting in a distinctly ominous way; I bury my face into the front of your shirt to hide it. “You can forget about Jack – I’d be far more pissed with you than he ever would be.”</p><p>“Would you indeed?” you say. “Worse than the weasels and vipers?”</p><p>This makes me laugh and your smile becomes a bit softer before you lean down to press an affectionate kiss to the top of my head. “Mongooses are even <em>worse</em>,” I add. I say this very earnestly, as if I think I’m scoring a serious zoological point. “Mongooses are like…large, vicious weasels.”</p><p>“Indeed they are,” you reply, equally seriously. “They also destroy vipers.” You reach up then begin to curl a strand of my hair around your finger. “I should have to lodge an appeal to the Prison Services to instal you in my cell.”</p><p>“No, stop it,” I say tragically. “Stop calling me a mongoose.”</p><p>“But why when you are such an attractive one? Adorable, in fact.”</p><p>I scowl silently into your shirt. This doesn’t seem like a particularly positive development: it basically means that as far as you’re concerned I’m an adorable murder weasel. I try to think of a way of explaining this that won’t sound completely demented and you take advantage of the silence to run your hands across my waist, deftly untucking my shirt as you go so you can stroke against my bare skin.</p><p>“You feel so warm,” you say softly. “Humid, almost. As if there’s a fire inside you.”  </p><p>Your fingers are dipping lower and lower as you’re speaking and I give a small sigh then arch up against your chest. “I know,” I finally manage to say. “It’s because it’s too <em>hot</em>.”</p><p>“It’s the Mediterranean, my love. It’s supposed to be hot.”</p><p>“It must have been nearly 90 this morning.”</p><p>“Probably. Maybe a little more.”</p><p>“Yes, well, it’s all right for <em>you</em>,” I say. “I suppose you’re in training for the hell-fires.”</p><p>Your lips promptly start to twitch, the way they always do when you’re struggling not to laugh.  “What a delicate plant you are,” you reply. “It’s clear you flourish in the shade. I should never have transported you here, should I? I blame myself for your current predicament.”</p><p>“That’s good,” I say. “I blame you too.”</p><p>“Then we’ll have to do something about it, won’t we?” You lean forward then kiss my forehead again. “Go and get some water. It will serve your own purpose of cooling down and mine of sobering you up.”</p><p>“What if I don’t want to sober up?” I say. “Maybe I like being…” <em>Tipsytipsytipsy</em>. “Half-cut?” I conclude firmly.</p><p>“Maybe you do.” You smile again (this time one of your more smouldering, suggestive varieties) then trail a finger down my bare arm. “But I have several plans for tonight and they all require you to be at least halfway <em>compos mentis</em>.”</p><p>“Ugh,” I say. “You’re such a killjoy.” I go silent for a few moments before emitting the same cackling noise as before. “Although I suppose you kill everything else so you might as well kill joy too.”</p><p>You finally admit defeat and laugh out loud before ruffling my hair in the sort of casual, affectionate way that shows how much you’re enjoying seeing me unwind. “You are a true logician,” you say. “Water, <em>mylimasis</em> – now. Then wait for me in the bedroom. I have bought you a gift.”</p><p>This immediately makes me smile as well because I really like getting presents from you; you always choose ones which are very beautiful and unusual, the type of things it would never occur to anyone else to buy. They’ll often be expensive, which feels a bit awkward, but it’s also in a tasteful understated way that conceals rather than flaunts the money spent on them: antique cufflinks, a reproduction <em>Schütte </em>figurine, or an Eri silk shirt of such a deep vivid blue it was like a slice of night-time sky. Your most recent one was a book about fishing, published in the 1800s and filled with delicate watercolours that some long-dead Angler must have spent years creating; the loving attention to detail visible in every single brushstroke.</p><p>“That was kind of you,” I now say. “Thanks very much.” Secretly I try to work out what it might be. My best guess is whiskey, because you know I’ve got a weakness for it and I was complaining last week about how long it’s been since I’ve had any. A package recently arrived for you stamped from Tyrol and I’m fairly sure there’s a distillery there.</p><p>You smile again then run your finger along the side of my cheek. As usual, you opt for the one with the scar. It’s like you’re weirdly fond of it – you’ll almost never choose the unblemished side if you have a choice.  “You’re welcome,” you say. And then, when I just carry on standing there: “Go on. I’ll join you in a moment.”</p><p>As I watch you turn around and vanish into the kitchen so I turn around too then obediently lumber upstairs; very slow and deliberate the entire time like I’m having a DUI test. It’s tempting to just crawl into bed and wait for you there, but I’ve remembered your advice about the water so go to the bathroom first to down a large glass then splash my face a few times in an attempt to sober up. My phone is sticking out my pocket and I find myself casting furtive glances at it, overwhelmed by a sudden urge to see if anything’s happened in the last few hours. <em>No, don’t check the news</em>, I mutter out loud – and I like the way it sounds, so do I it again. <em>Don’t check it</em>, I repeat under my breath. <em>There’s nothing to be afraid of</em>.</p><p>The phone is still in my line of vision and in that moment it feels like a little avatar of everything I’m worried about. I might as well have Jack in my pocket. I decide to straighten up so I don’t have to see it anymore, but as soon as I do I see the mirror instead and it’s then that I realise how pale my reflection is with a sad haunted expression flickering behind the eyes. The dread in it is undeniable but I still stare back at it defiantly, daring it to try and contradict me – daring it to try and imply that I’m walking blind into disaster. <em>We’re fine as long as we’re together</em>, I tell it, even though I’m no longer sure whether I’m talking about solidarity with that frightened part of myself or communion with you. Not that it really matters that much, I suppose. You, me: it’s all the same. It’s the exact sensation I had when we were dancing, and it reminds me of how it sometimes feels like it’s not enough to simply desire you, it’s as if I want to <em>be</em> you. It’s as if the only way I could ever be close enough is to step inside you; to climb into your body and wear it as my own. Like I how I feel I could fuse with you, if such a thing was possible. That if were possible, then I would absolutely do it. </p><p>This is an old refrain that’s pretty much shaped me since we first met: the feeling that the only way I can truly know myself is through knowing you. It was intense enough before we went over the cliff but now it’s all-consuming, and while I can’t exactly say for sure when it really took full hold I know it’s led me to a state where I sometimes feel that we’re not always two people anymore but one. Me but not-me. That when I look at you I see myself staring back, and how I don’t always know anymore where I end and you begin. You feel the same of course, and I know it’s what drives your endless lectures about embracing and appreciating myself because you understand that the day I accept the darker parts of my own nature is the day I fully accept you. I’m not there yet, but it’s closer than it was; closer than it’s ever been. What would it be like if I just let go and embraced it? Two halves of the same whole: myself as you, and you as me. Not that it really matters because it’s already too late to change. It was too late from the first moment you saw me and decided you wanted to see how far it was possible to go.</p><p>I let out a sudden loud sigh then press my forehead against the coolness of the glass. These are such deep thoughts and I’m not really sure how to deal with them. Admittedly it’s partly a result of stress and alcohol but even sober and calm I know they’d still be there…right alongside that marriage proposal which I still haven’t properly acknowledged.  My face is close against the mirror now but even in this position I can still see the edge of my reflection; can still feel how afraid it is. <em>I can’t be you forever</em>, I tell it. <em>We have to stay here. We can’t leave</em>. I have no idea if it’s the right decision. But it’s the one I’ve made – that you and I have made together – and it no longer seems possible to retract it. So eventually I do the only thing I can think of to do: which is to slowly straighten up then take one final look in the mirror before I turn my back on it, switching off the light as I do so and plunging it into darkness as I close the door behind me.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey lovely Fannibals! So, I decided we’ve all had a bit too much angst recently…which means this week’s chapter is pretty much nothing but porn with a bit of fluff on top. Yeah that’s right: pure porn-fluff (over 14k words of it). Apologies in advance for anyone who’s not really into that, but if you didn’t come for fluffy porn then you should definitely stay for the exquisite art the very talented sailfin has made for the fic, which you can feast your eyes on <a href="https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/29876151">here</a>.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s hard to switch off after such intense self-reflection and despite my best efforts I’m not quite able to manage it. I really wish I could – I’d love to have the sort of personality that shrugs off its moods like a snake shedding skin. Like you, for example, who can carelessly discard whatever thought or feeling is inconvenient, whereas I seem condemned to carry each last one like a rock around my neck. In the end I decide to give up even trying, so just drag myself to the bedroom instead where I hunch myself cross-legged on the bed with my face cupped in my palm. I feel pensive yet restless and eventually get so lost in my thoughts that I barely even register when you walk in a few minutes later. You politely clear your throat to announce yourself and when I glance up I can see that you’re carrying a small black bag. I suppose this must be the gift, but instead of handing it over you just lay it on the floor then climb onto the bed so you can sit next to me.</p><p>I make a small grunting noise that’s intended to pass as a greeting and you smile then reach out to touch my arm with your finger. “You make yourself look so small when you do that,” you say. “Like a <em>kaukas</em>.”</p><p>“A what-as?”</p><p>You shrug; if I didn’t know any better I’d say you looked slightly self-conscious. “It’s a folklore creature,” you reply after a pause. “From Lithuania. I’m not sure why such an image occurred to me, but evidently it has.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Now I’m intrigued: it’s rare for you to make any reference to your past and even a trivial little morsel like this manages to retain a quality of intrigue. I’ve actually made a habit of collecting such snippets whenever you deign to mention them – although admittedly the interest is probably misplaced in this instance, seeing how there’s a high likelihood you’ve just compared me to the European equivalent of a garden gnome.</p><p>“Feeling nostalgic, are you?” I ask. I make myself sound casual; a deliberate prompt to see if you can be coaxed into confiding something else.</p><p>“No, not especially. As I said: I don’t know why that comparison came to mind.”</p><p>“What are <em>kaukas</em> anyway?” I add. The name sounds evocative, and I’ve got a vague idea that they might turn out to be something impressive.</p><p>“<em>Kaukai </em>are small creatures that could form themselves out of dust,” you reply – and which promptly destroys that particular hope, because it’s already clear that <em>kaukai </em>(far from being amazing and badass) are possibly the lamest things ever. Even lamer than garden gnomes, if such a thing were possible. “A <em>kaukas </em>in one’s home meant a preservation of happiness and wellbeing,” you add. “Their appearance was something to be hoped for.” You smile then shrug again. “I remember being told about them when I was a child.”</p><p>This makes me smile as well. “I can’t imagine you as a child.”</p><p>“No?” you say with amusement. “Well, I can assure you I was one. I didn’t just spring into the world fully-formed.”</p><p>“Obviously,” I say, although to be honest it’s <em>not</em> obvious. It’s not obvious at all. If anything, it’s probably easier to imagine you being <em>hatched</em> than it is with something so mundane as a childhood and parents, the same as anybody else. I suppose if I try <em>really</em> hard I can just about see you as a teenager, although only as an older one – maybe about 17. In other words, practically an adult, which is no doubt what makes it easier to visualize. It’s also impossible to imagine that 17-year-old you would have had any lower reserves of poise and confidence than the fully-grown version, although I guess you would still have been slimmer and more willowy back then. Softer edges and looser limbs…perhaps even some hair tangling in your eyes? You wouldn’t have had time to grow into the sculptured features that are so distinguished by age and would probably have looked a bit lean and sinuous: eyes too large in a thin face and the suppleness of a greyhound which is built for speed rather than strength. A <em>child</em>, though…an actual child. Could you ever really have been one? For a few seconds I do my best to picture it and eventually manage a vague facsimile of what you might have been: a solemn silent dark-eyed little boy, intensely curious of everything around you while remaining strangely detached from it.</p><p>I now glance up at you and give you a rather rueful smile. “I bet you intimidated everyone,” I say. “And that you were the sort of kid who broke all their toys.”</p><p>For a few seconds you just stare at me and I realise you must have already intuited a double meaning that I wasn’t fully intending to make. You’re so sharp sometimes: I feel like I could cut myself on the corners of your mind. “Is that meant as a rebuke by any chance?” you reply. “Because if so, I can assure you that I have never seen you as a toy.”</p><p>“A plaything, then,” I say. “Something to amuse yourself with.” I’m trying to be flippant, but it comes out a bit sterner than planned – clearly I haven’t shaken off my bathroom introspection as well as I thought I had.</p><p>Once more you carry on staring, your eyes bearing very fixedly in mine. Your expression is as smooth and planed as a bit of marble; it’s impossible to tell what you’re really thinking. Sometimes this quality of yours can be a strain, but over time I’ve also learnt to appreciate it and this is undoubtedly one of those moments. After all, I get so bombarded with the contents of other people’s minds that confronting one that’s virtually impenetrable can sometimes be rather soothing.</p><p>“Well if I did, I would always re-assemble them again,” you finally reply. “At least the ones which were precious enough to take the trouble over. And they always came out better than they were before.”</p><p>I raise an eyebrow. “Better?”</p><p>This time you start to smile. That faint sense of tension has already dissolved – if it was ever truly there in the first place. “In my own estimation, yes. But perhaps that answer doesn’t please you, in which case we can give the result a more inspiring name. Call it invigorated. Call it <em>transformed</em>.”</p><p>“Call it whatever you like,” I say lightly. “I’m with Bathes on this one: your interpretation of your own work is irrelevant.”</p><p>“Oh yes, <em>The Death of the Author</em>. Then I suppose I shall have to accept defeat, won’t I? What an infuriatingly clever boy you are.”</p><p>“Only you won’t accept it,” I reply in the same casual way. “You never have.”</p><p>Your smile promptly begins to broaden. You always relish these verbal sparring matches (unlike me, who only manages an enjoyment rate around 60% of the time). “That is because I am very possessive of my creations. Nevertheless, your point remains a good one. Artworks are orphan things, after all. Their parents create them and then abandon their offspring for an audience to describe and interpret.”</p><p>“And you still think you can interpret me?”</p><p>“I think I should like to try.”</p><p>“Knock yourself out then,” I say. I suppose now would be as good a time as any to tell you about my fraught session in front of the mirror, but even as the thought occurs to me I know I’m not going to. My head hurts, I’m still too hot, and just for once I want to be able to relax without playing weird mind games. Not that there isn’t a certain irony to this wish, seeing how the mind games are one of the things which draws me to you – and always have been.</p><p>“Shall we go to bed then?” I say to change the subject. Privately I’m curious about what the gift might be, but you haven’t mentioned it yet and I feel shy about bringing it up myself (not least because it’s hard to find a way of asking ‘<em>What about my present?</em>’ which won’t make me sound like a sulky five-year old, and I don’t think my sense of ingenuity is up to it).</p><p>Instead of replying you just lean back on your heels then regard me for a while with that same faint smile on your face. “What?” I protest. “What are you staring at?”</p><p>“You,” you say. “Obviously.”</p><p>“Would want like to know what else is obvious?” You promptly raise an eyebrow: <em>please enlighten me</em>. “Your staring is creepy,” I add with a hint of triumph. “And <em>rude</em>. So stop it.”</p><p>“But I can’t stop it. I am a slave to my own fascination. Besides, I am thinking about what I wish you do to.”</p><p>“And what do you wish me to do?”</p><p>“I should have thought was also obvious,” you say silkily. “I want you to take your clothes off.”</p><p>This makes me laugh; you’re not usually so unsubtle and it’s actually kind of funny. “<em>Take your clothes off</em>,” I repeat, in an (admittedly terrible) approximation of your accent. “Have you even heard yourself? You’re so authoritative.”</p><p>“Yes,” you reply with a slow smile. “I dare say.”</p><p>“I’m tired. And, y’know…tipsy. Can’t you do it?”</p><p>“Yes, I suppose I could,” you pause a few seconds then give me a long, slow smile. “But I am not going to. I want to watch you.”</p><p>“But I’m <em>tipsy</em>,” I say.</p><p>“Yes, it is a very great tragedy.” You smirk then deliberately fold your arms together. “You will simply have to persevere.”</p><p>I roll my eyes at you, followed up with something that feels dangerously close to pouting. But it’s clear you won’t change your mind, so finally I just sigh again like someone with the weight of the world on their shoulders before unfastening my shirt with one hand while tugging at my belt with the other. Admittedly it’s not very seductive – I’m a bit clumsy with the buttons and my jeans get tangled with one of my ankles (the bastards) and require some undignified tugging to remove – but I eventually manage it. Then I settle myself upright and throw you a defiant look from beneath my eyelashes. It’s strange to think how self-conscious I once would have felt at doing this. Now I not only don’t care but can even derive a certain satisfaction from it. I’ve never particularly enjoyed attention, but I can’t deny there’s something intensely addictive about the effect I’m able to have on you simply by allowing you to look at me.</p><p>You reach over to tuck a stray bit of hair behind my ear. “Excellent,” you say. “I appreciate your cooperation. Now please turn round.”</p><p>“Do I have to?” I’ve begun scrabbling at your own clothes now, but you just keep smiling then batting my hands away. “Lie down, can’t you,” I add bossily. “Behave yourself for once.” In fact I’m fairly desperate by now to just drape myself across your back and fuck you (I’d wrestle with you for it if I had to), but it’s clear from the determined set of your mouth that this isn’t what you have in mind. Sure enough, you reach out to take hold of my forearms, gently but firmly manoeuvring me round.</p><p>“There will be plenty more opportunities,” you say. “But tonight I have other plans for us.”</p><p>I groan in a rather martyred way, but I don’t really want another argument so obediently shuffle away in a neat semi-circle as you reach across the bed to retrieve the bag. You keep a hand on my shoulder as you do it, which makes me smile – it’s like you don’t want me to feel neglected for even the few seconds it would take to move away. An intriguing series of rustling sounds then follow, at which point the urge to swing round for a crafty look grows almost overwhelming. Instead I just laugh a bit at how inane the whole thing feels and you kiss my shoulder blade before tugging me backwards against your chest. At some point you must have removed your own shirt too, because I can immediately feel the warmth of your skin against mine.</p><p>“That’s better,” you say, beginning to nuzzle the side of my face with your cheek. “How compliant you’re being; I intend to make the most of it while it lasts. <em>Mano mielasis</em>…my little wild thing.”</p><p>This makes me laugh again. “Okay, stop it now,” I tell you. “You’re being weird.”</p><p>“Yes, quite possibly I am,” you reply. You sound very happy about this – it’s like I can insult you as much as I want to and you don’t give a shit. “It’s true though. You’re so untameable. You always have been. When Jack Crawford arrives…” I give your leg a quick prod as a warning not to push things too far and you laugh yourself then catch hold of my hand and kiss the back of it. “When Jack Crawford arrives,” you add, completely undeterred, “then you can ask him yourself. I think you’ll find he agrees with my analysis. He could never control you either.”</p><p>I’m tempted to prod you again but there hardly seems any point: as far as you’re concerned the embargo on Jack has been lifted and it’s clear you’re going to make a habit of mentioning him as much as possible just to be provoking. “Well, at least you’re admitting you can’t,” I say pointedly.</p><p>You make an amused sound then pull me against you a little tighter so you can rest your face next to mine. It feels nice; I swivel my head as far as I can to press a rather clumsy kiss against your jaw. “Naturally,” you say. “But unlike him that was never my intention. When confronted with something wild then one can endeavour to tame it by force – which is what Jack tried and failed to do – or instead invest the necessary time and patience in attempting to gain its trust.”</p><p>From the satisfied tone of your voice it’s clear you give yourself a <em>huge</em> amount of credit for choosing the latter; it’s like you’re expecting a round of applause or something. I roll my eyes a bit then twist round again, this time to give you an affectionate nudge with my forehead.</p><p>“<em>Trust</em>,” I repeat with obvious irony. “Not the word I’d choose myself.”</p><p>“No, I don’t suppose you would. But that’s because I haven’t gained it – most likely I never will. In fact I almost certainly won’t, because the day that happens would be the day I was fully able to predict you, and I can’t imagine such a thing will ever occur. Do you know what you remind me of beloved? You’re like a tiger cub who’s been raised by humans. Affectionate and playful one moment then savage and hostile the next, all because you can’t repress your true nature. It means I can’t domesticate you – and I wouldn’t presume to try.”</p><p>I suppose this isn’t the worst analogy you’ve ever used (in fact, given the <em>kaukai </em>and their epic shitness, it’s not even the worst analogy you’ve used today) but it still leaves me vaguely uncomfortable. Even so, you’re still not wrong. It’s been a long time since I was afraid of you physically hurting me, but the idea of you gaining any serious psychological control remains as unsettling as it’s always been. My independence is so important to me and I know you’d take it if you could.</p><p>“Domesticated,” I say, trying to aim for a joke to disguise it. “You’re making me sound like I need house-breaking.”</p><p>You repeat the same amused sound from earlier then kiss the tip of my cheekbone (yours manage to get involved too halfway through and practically gouges me in the ear: seriously, those bastards need their own risk assessment). “It’s not quite as severe as <em>that</em>,” you reply. “But you can’t deny you’re not fully adapted to share a living space, at least not with me. You’re so wild and wary.”</p><p>This is <em>definitely</em> getting uncomfortable now. I don’t feel like you’re doing it on purpose – your tone is too tender and fond for that – but regardless of intent you’re still picking at some unpleasant truths that I’m not really in the mood to acknowledge.</p><p>“I’m not,” I protest.  Even to my own ears the denial sounds incredibly half-assed.</p><p>“Yes you are,” you say calmly. “Don’t mistake me though – I’m not angry with you for it. Who knows, perhaps you’re right to be so? But regardless, I think your instinct is still to see me as a threat and that you have to constantly fight to contain it.” You give me another kiss to confirm this isn’t intended as a criticism. “You’re so fiercely protective of yourself and I wouldn’t have you any other way; it increases the satisfaction every time I manage to pacify you for an hour or so. Besides, I’ve always enjoyed protest from you. How else would I have been able to relish your resistance?”</p><p>“Right,” I say vaguely. A long pause then follows, which I suppose I ought to fill with something profound but at the moment I can’t seem to elaborate on beyond ‘<em>Well you’ve always been a great big bastard to me so what do you expect?</em>’ I finally decide there’s no other option except to go nuclear and turn into a five-year old. “<em>Anyway</em>,” I say. “Didn’t you say you’d bought me something?”</p><p>“Don’t worry, I hadn’t forgotten. But I do <em>so</em> enjoy our little conversations.”</p><p>“I know you do,” I say wryly. “But I did tell you I wasn’t in the mood to talk.”</p><p>“Indeed you did.” You give me another kiss; this time on the neck and followed by a faint scrape of teeth, just enough to make me catch my breath. “I apologise. Sometimes I am very unfair to you.”</p><p>“What, only sometimes?” I say, starting to laugh. “You’ve truly mastered the art of the understatement.”</p><p>“And as usual we are speaking at cross purposes,” you reply. “You are referring to the past and I am discussing the present. Which means I can at least make amends for being so unreasonable and offer you your gift.”</p><p>You reach behind you to retrieve the bag and I have a sudden panicked feeling that it might be an engagement ring. It’s exactly the sort of manipulative stunt you would pull and the thought of the ensuing awkwardness is enough to make me break into a cold sweat. I still don’t feel ready to say yes…but then how could I bear the blunt rejection of telling you no? It’s one thing to say I need more time to think about it; another thing entirely to turn down an actual <em>ring</em>. Fortunately when the parcel appears I can see that it’s much too large for that – although it’s also too small for whiskey, so that guess was clearly wrong as well.</p><p>“This is <em>nice</em>,” I say, trying not to sound too relieved. “Thank you. I’ll definitely keep the box.” I struggle free of your grip then run a forefinger across the lid, which is of buttery soft leather with a small bronze clasp at the side shaped like a fleur-de-lys. The design is simple yet elegant – very much your taste – and could easily be a present in and of itself.</p><p>“You should reserve your thanks until you open it,” you say. You kiss my throat again, slowly stroking along my arms until our hands are entwined and you can puppeteer me into pulling off the lid. “I confess, I’m curious what your reaction will be.”</p><p>This makes me pause very fractionally, wary in spite of myself. With somebody else this wouldn’t mean anything, but your curiosity generally signals something ominous and my fears about an engagement ring promptly spin towards something linked with Jack. “Um, yeah, I suppose I should try to guess,” I say cautiously. “But I’m not sure I…”</p><p>As I’m speaking I finally get the lid off; at which point my words promptly shrivel away into nothing as I see what’s inside. Then I open my mouth, close it again, and then finally just sit there, consumed with a huge sense of relief you can’t see me and will be unaware of how I’ve almost certainly started to blush.</p><p>“Oh,” I finally manage. Now I’m battling an urge to laugh; I think I’ve swung the full spectrum from extreme mortification to cackling hysteria. “You <em>didn’t</em>.”</p><p>“But I did,” you say serenely. “Exactly as I told you I would.”</p><p>“You’re unbelievable.” Yeah, I’m definitely blushing; I must be full-on Communist red. Carefully I duck my head down even further to ensure you won’t notice. “I didn’t think you <em>meant</em> it. Anyway, that was ages ago.”</p><p>“A-g-e-s,” you repeat, beginning to lay a trail of kisses across my shoulder blades. “When we were still in America, in fact. It would appear I have bided my time.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I say. “Right.” Then I realise I’ve run out of responses after just two words, so close my mouth again and simply stare down at the box instead. Part of me want to exclaim ‘<em>I can’t believe you’ve bought me a butt plug</em>’ (have it officially put on record, as it were) but it feels impossible to say in front of you. This is admittedly ridiculous for a full-grown adult, but somehow I just can’t. After all, it took me ages to be able to say ‘sex’ without squirming and ‘butt plug’ is a whole new frontier of linguistic cringe. Besides, it’s not like you’ll say it either. In fact I’m certain you won’t. Not because you’re embarrassed (unlike me) but because you’ll think it’s beneath you, the same way you won’t ever start cursing in English.</p><p>I now get preoccupied with trying to devise a way to trick you into saying ‘butt plug’ out loud (and simultaneously failing, because I can only think of pretending to be confused at what it is so you have to explain, and which would demote me to a level of naïve dumbassery which even I don’t want to cross). Then I glance down again at the actual plug, which seems to be glinting in the lamplight in a distinctly provocative way: obscenely bulbous, gleaming gold, and nestled rather ludicrously on a bed of sleek black velvet as if someone’s told it it’s a piece of jewellery and it’s now determined to try and behave like one. Although surely it’s not <em>actual</em> gold; surely even you wouldn’t go that far? Covertly I lean down to take a closer look at it, briefly scandalised at the idea of the expense. Oh God, I bet it is…I bet you have. How am I supposed to live with the moral guilt of <em>that</em>? How is <em>anyone</em> supposed to live with the moral burden of having something shoved up their ass knowing that its market value could have fed a family of four for a month…</p><p>“So what do you think?” you ask, beginning to kiss your way along the edge of my jaw.</p><p>“I hope that wasn’t <em>expensive</em>,” I say shrilly.</p><p>“Not especially,” you reply (which on the surface sounds an acceptable answer, but in reality means pretty much fuck all). I glance at you suspiciously and you gaze back with your most serenely innocent expression. <em>Look at my FACE</em>, the expression seems to say; <em>would this face LIE to you?</em></p><p>“Yeah, well,” I add mutinously. “It better not have been.”</p><p>You wave your hand around in a deliberately casual way then adopt another variation of the ‘<em>would this face LIE to you?’</em> expression. I have a sudden real sense that if you start waxing lyrical about how many karats it is then the urge to punch you might grow overwhelming. “Well far be it from me to outrage you further,” is all you say. “But I should also warn you that it’s only one of <em>several</em>.”</p><p>You trail off suggestively then begin to skim both palms down my chest and along my waist. This is a clear invitation for my imagination to go into overdrive as to what these others might look like, but I do my best to ignore you – not least because I’ve got enough problems dealing with this one without taking on its assorted family members as well (which are no doubt stashed all over the house and are going to start appearing at random intervals over the next few weeks as a form of ambush).</p><p>I finally give up and start to laugh again. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know if I want to. I mean…look at it.”</p><p>Both of us now glance down at the same time. The plug continues to roll around between us on its velvet blanket, almost as if it’s listening to the conversation, while managing to catch the light in a series of expensive twinkles. The fucking thing looks as if it’s <em>winking</em> at me.</p><p>There’s another pause before I feel another light scrape of teeth against my neck. “But it will feel <em>so</em> good for you,” you say.</p><p>You extend the sibilant ‘s’ slightly, the way you sometimes do – and which depending on your mood can either resemble a threatening hiss or a long languorous sigh. Right now it’s definitely the former and at the sound of it I can feel my resolve starting to falter. I know you do this on purpose. You’re well aware how striking your voice can be to native English speakers and have always exploited it to full effect: deliberately rolling the vowels, dropping the tone, and adding a smoky inflection to the timbre which isn’t usually there. You once told me that when we first met it would sometimes made me flush, although I firmly maintain this is bullshit.</p><p>“Just consider it,” you add, beginning to kiss my throat again. “I have put a great deal of thought into obtaining the most suitable design and dimensions.”</p><p>I suppose this last past is a reference to how the plug curves at the end, presumably to nudge against the prostate, and is announced with an enviable lack of embarrassment or self-consciousness. It’s as if putting A Great Deal of Thought into butt plug mechanics is a highly worthwhile endeavour. If anything you sound outright pleased with yourself: you could be describing the thought put into something <em>noble</em> (planning world peace; ending world hunger). It’s not like I even believe you. I mean how much thought can <em>anyone</em> realistically put into buying a butt plug? You almost certainly just sauntered into the sort of shop which re-brands them as ‘Gentleman’s Plugs’ then chose the most expensive and eye-catching and left it at that (an eye-catching butt plug, though…fuck my life). God knows what you even expect me to say? It’s like you’re waiting for some sort of equally solemn acknowledgement: <em>Thank you kindly</em> <em>for the thought invested in the design and dimensions of my golden butt plug. You have earned my eternal gratitude</em>.</p><p>“Oh God,” I say, then promptly start sniggering again. I don’t even know why, it’s not like it’s funny. Most likely it’s just embarrassment. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” I add. “What would people say if they knew?”</p><p>I’m not even sure what ‘people’ I’m referring to, only that they’ve assembled in my head into a huge grey phalanx of disapproval (possibly chanting ‘Shame!’…possibly pointing at the plug while they’re doing it). Of course you don’t even have the slightest of shits to give about this and just smile again then stretch rather luxuriously, flexing the muscles in your neck while basking in my obvious discomfort.</p><p>“That doesn’t concern me in the least,” you reply. “There are only two opinions which really interest me: yours and mine.”</p><p>“But it’s so…” I trail off a bit trying to think of the right word. <em>Degenerate</em> is too over the top (and isn’t even true, considering I’d never think that if it were someone else doing it rather than me). I audition, then reject, <em>embarrassing, uncomfortable</em> and <em>stupid</em> before finally settling on “Weird.”</p><p>“It’s not remotely weird,” you say briskly. “But even if it were I’m afraid I would not accept that as an objection.” This is followed with a slow smile before you lean back your heels, all feline glamour and casual grace, both eyes slitted like a cat. “You should understand me well enough by now to know that I don’t subscribe to rationing one’s pleasure in anything. And if it’s something that society’s rules encourage me to avoid then I’m likely to pursue it even more…passionately.”</p><p>“Only it’s not you who’s doing the pursuing,” I reply gloomily. “Is it?”</p><p>As I watch your mouth begins to arrange itself into one of its more inscrutable smiles. “I would recommend you to at least <em>try</em>.”</p><p>This is said in a tone of voice so suggestive and smouldering it should come with an age-restriction warning. In fact it’s enticing enough to be borderline irresistible, and I shoot you a rather helpless look that’s intended to convey my resentment of this (<em>You crafty bastard – that’s such an underhand move</em>) which you return with a few slow blinks (<em>Indeed it is – sue me</em>). I scowl back at you, determined to have another attempt at protest, but ultimately find myself just drifting into silence before the lecture has even got started. You, of course, don’t reply at all and instead resume kissing the side of my throat more persistently than ever.</p><p>“Well…<em>okay</em> then,” I say finally. By this point I sound outright martyred; anyone would think you were pointing a golden shotgun at my head or brandishing a golden baseball bat. “I guess. Maybe. Go on then. Just for tonight.”</p><p>“An excellent decision,” you reply. “I congratulate you.”</p><p>You sound unbelievably smug and I decide I can’t stand it anymore so just collapse across the bed and stare up at the ceiling instead. I’m awkwardly aware of how tense and cautious I’ve gone – less like the recipient of a golden butt plug (chosen with A Great Deal of Thought) and more like someone in their doctor’s office awaiting a rectal exam. Possibly you think the same because you make an amused noise then lean down to kiss me on the forehead.</p><p>“Calm down,” you say. “You look positively tragic.”</p><p>I glance up from beneath my hair and give you a severe look. “No,” I say with extreme dignity. “I do <em>not</em>.”</p><p>This makes you smile, although you don’t try to contradict me. Instead you ask whether I’m still too hot and when I nod you start to smile again. “Yes, I thought you might be,” you say. “You appear to be an intriguing combination of paleness, perspiration and petulance.” I open my mouth to object to this (spectacularly unflattering) description and you smirk a bit then reach down to ruffle my hair. “We’ll have to do something about that, won’t we? Wait one moment.”</p><p>You lean across to the bag again, this time reappearing with a single ice cube (wrapped, rather absurdly, in a tiny scrap of gingham cloth) so you can trace it across my forehead then down my cheek. It’s stingingly cold and when I gasp you make a soothing sound then stroke my lower lip with your free hand, gently increasing the pressure until I’ve opened my mouth and you can slide two fingers in to let me suck them.</p><p>“There you go” you say caressingly. “Isn’t that better?”</p><p>As you’re speaking you skim the ice across both collar bones then down towards my chest, regularly dipping your head as you go to lap up the trails of water. You often touch me like this. It’s exploratory yet worshipful, paying careful attention to every plane of bone and curve of muscle with an intensity that’s almost overwhelming. The way your hand drops lower each time makes me quiver and arch my back, unwittingly letting my legs fall further apart as my breath hitches into something like a pant. You murmur appreciatively at the sound of it then slowly run your tongue along the side of my throat.</p><p>“How perfectly constructed you are Will,” you say. You sound very thoughtful; it’s as if you’re musing to yourself out loud. “Your anatomy is exquisite. The length of bone and slenderness of limb; the firmness of muscle tone balanced by all these smoother contours. The softness of your skin…the sheer <em>aesthetics</em> of you.”</p><p>“I’m not,” I say awkwardly. “Don’t be stupid.”</p><p>“On the contrary. It is not stupid at all but a mere statement of fact. You have such a frail façade but look how strong and wiry you are. You are a true canon of artistic proportions. <em>Le proporzioni del corpo umano secondo Vitruvio</em>; Leonardo’s Vitruvian Man. Imagine my private rapture if you’d first come to me in a medical capacity rather than a psychiatric one? How should I have been able to control myself when required to examine you?”</p><p>This makes me groan a bit then screw my eyes closed. In fact it seems I might’ve developed a bit of a praise kink over the years without realising it, because despite my embarrassment it’s almost impossible not to get turned on when I hear the raw desire in your voice. I’m hoping you might kiss me to prove the point, but when I open my eyes and gaze upwards you remain stubbornly out of reach. I finally lose patience and strain my head towards you, quickly followed by a frustrated growling noise when you deliberately jerk your face away.</p><p>“What are you doing up there?” I say crossly.  “Why won’t you come closer?”</p><p>“Because I want to watch your expression when you’re being touched. You’re so responsive; it’s rather captivating.”</p><p>I make another frustrated noise, which makes you smile again before finally relenting and lowering your mouth down to mine. I give a breathy sigh then push up against you. “Look at you,” you say tenderly as you pull away. “So needy and beautiful. How long do you think you could last like this?”</p><p>“Yeah, about that,” I say. “Can’t you just…you know.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You <em>know</em> what,” I say pompously.</p><p>“You mean slide this interesting little device inside you?” you ask (at which point I start smirking, because I <em>knew</em> you’d never say ‘butt plug’ out loud). “Is the idea becoming more appealing now?” you add softly. “Does it excite you?”</p><p>I mutter something deliberately incoherent and you smile a bit more then cradle my head with one hand as the other one trails downward (fucking finally). I cheer up straight away – although admittedly this doesn’t last long, because you determinedly ignore my cock despite the way it’s almost painful from lack of attention and lying hard and wet against my abdomen where I’m leaking pre-come over both of us. In fact the awareness of it makes me self-conscious, a bit like urinating in public, because it’s such an obvious sign of urgency.</p><p>“Patience,” you add, beginning to rub the side of your face against mine. “I’ll do it soon, I promise. You’re going to take it perfectly aren’t you? I can already tell.”</p><p>I push my body forward against yours, biting my lip to try and disguise the soft gasping noises that have started to escape at intervals. “Hmm…No,” I say. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“<em>I</em> know,” you reply. “You’re going to love it when the time comes.”</p><p>“You mean when <em>you</em> come,” I say crossly. “Hurry up can’t you. What are you waiting for?”</p><p>Your smile immediately broadens before you reach down to retrieve the box, your eyes never once moving from my face. I’m hoping you might jerk me off while you’re down there, but of course you don’t and I know I was stupid to expect it – it’s obvious you’re in one of those moods where you want to make me wait. Instead you make a big performance of slathering some lube onto the length of the plug before slowly rubbing it against my ass in a series of devastatingly teasing strokes. The lube must have been stored in the fridge because it’s cold enough to make me suck in my breath then mutter ‘<em>Uhhh</em>’ in something close to a whisper.</p><p>“Not yet,” you say softly. “You’re still so tight, I don’t want to hurt you.” You drop a quick kiss on my hipbone, followed by a rustling noise as you pour out more lube. “Try and relax, my love. You’ll enjoy it I promise.”</p><p>You now begin to skim your free hand along my ribs and waist, finally coming to a halt against the top of my thigh. I make a small keening noise then arch my back, overcome with a level of anticipation that’s getting close to torment. The urgency is embarrassing, yet impossible to control when the way you’re caressing me feels <em>so</em> good – the blunt head of the plug rubbing back and forwards in delicate strokes which grow increasingly persistent and probing, despite not actually pushing in. My breath speeds up further and I give another moan, frantically grinding my hips against the pressure.</p><p>“Perfect,” you say. You sound a bit breathless yourself; it’s obvious how much you’re enjoying the sight of it. “You really want it now, don’t you? I suspected you’d respond well and it’s gratifying to have it confirmed. Just imagine if I’d done this to you years ago – what would have happened if I’d tried to train you in such a way?”</p><p>I give a sort of half laugh, half gasp. “Jesus, nothing’s enough to shut you up is it? Just be quiet can’t you. Keep your mind on the job.”</p><p>“It’s true though.” You lean forward, gently tugging my ear lobe between your teeth because you like the way it makes me quiver (and then, even worse, bite my lip between my teeth to stop myself from manic giggling). “My poor boy. How humiliated you would have been.”</p><p>“Do you have to make me sound like such a victim all the time?” I manage to reply. “Can we at least assume I’d have enjoyed it if I was letting you do it?”</p><p>“Oh, you would have certainly <em>enjoyed</em> it. But your shame would have been considerable.”</p><p>“To be honest it’s pretty considerable at the moment.”</p><p>“No doubt,” you say. You’re really increasing the pressure of the plug now, sliding it around in a way that’s oddly similar to how your tongue and lips move when you’re eating me out. It’s clear you want to discover the sort of state you can reduce me to without actual penetration; I can see you glancing down every so often to check how much harder I’m getting. “Yes, but you still want it don’t you?” you add. “You want it <em>so</em> badly, just as you would have done back then. Of course you were more biddable when we first met than you are now, so it wouldn’t have been too hard to persuade you. I would have begun with a much smaller size than this one I think, then made you keep it inside you all day.”</p><p>“Oh God,” I say faintly.</p><p>You hum approvingly, then pour out more lube before briefly abandoning the plug so you can work a finger inside me instead. You really take your time with this: massaging in small circles to test my resistance, teasing me open with the tip, then waiting until you feel the tight ring of muscle give way before finally pushing in, sighing with satisfaction as you feel me clench around you. It always feels incredible when you do this. Most people might rush over it as an obligatory bit of preparation, but you lavish it with attention like it’s something sensuous and pleasurable which deserves to be lingered over. If I’m honest it always makes me feel a bit debauched whenever it happens; lying there with my legs spread open, knowing that when the time comes to replace your fingers with your cock I’ll be so slicked and stretched open that you’ll be able to slide it straight into me without any effort at all.</p><p>“Mmm, yes, imagine that,” you say softly. “Doing your best to converse with your colleagues while harbouring such a shameful secret.” Your finger’s moving faster now, so slippery from all the lube that when I pivot my hips even slightly it’s enough to make it sink deep inside all the way to the knuckle. I make a small mewling noise as I feel my cock twitch across my stomach. “I would have driven you home afterwards and forced you to sit very still,” you add in the same soft voice. “All that exquisite pressure just building and building with no possible means of relief. By the time I got you back to my house you would have been beside yourself. I would have adored watching it.”</p><p>I groan again then give my hips another thrust. Your other hand is skimming across my throat and I suspect you’re checking whether my pulse has sped up. You’ll often do this; you like to use it as a gauge of how much I’m getting turned on by what you’re saying.  “Yeah, I bet you would,” I manage to reply. “You’d have loved watching me suffer.”</p><p>“Indeed. <em>Mano mielasis…</em>I wasn’t always very kind to you was I?”</p><p>There’s something in your tone that catches my attention and when I briefly open my eyes it’s to see you gazing down at me with a rather pensive smile on your face. This is unusual. Normally you’ll never admit what you did was wrong (mostly because as far as you’re concerned it wasn’t) which makes this a rare instance of you acknowledging the impact of your methods, despite an unwavering belief that they were for my own good. Of course it’s also typical that you’ve chosen to be self-reflective at a time when further discussion is impossible and I make a mental note to remind you about it later.</p><p>“No, don’t close your eyes,” you add when it looks as if I’m about to. “Keep them open. I want to watch you while I’m doing this. So, what’s your opinion now then, Will; do you think you’re ready?” You renew the rubbing motion of the plug as you’re speaking, slowly increasing the pressure until I let out a low moan. “Mmm, you certainly <em>sound</em> ready. That sounded like a yes to me, beloved. Are you waiting to feel something slide inside here – something to fill you up? Is that what you want?”</p><p>By now I’m too far gone to talk so just make a whining noise instead (embarrassing). You smile at the sound of it then quickly lower your head, forcing your tongue between my lips at the exact same moment your hand draws back to push the length of the plug deep inside my ass with a single smooth thrust. I wail helplessly into your mouth then snap my head against the pillow, spine curving and hips jolting as you kiss my throat while starting to rock the handle in extravagant swirling angles.</p><p>“Beautiful,” you say softly. “That’s perfect. Look how well you take it. I knew you would.”</p><p>My whole body seems to shudder as I hear myself gasping “Hannibal, <em>oh</em>. Oh fuck. I like it…I really like it,” in a desperate chant, interspersed with something dangerously close to whimpering. It’s humiliating, but I don’t know how to stay in control when the sensation is so incredibly intense; almost like being jerked off like from the inside. I can actually <em>feel</em> myself getting tighter round the width of plug, the muscle clenching and gripping onto it like if I’m trying to draw the whole length deeper inside me. At the same time your other hand is moving upwards to grip onto my hip, pulling me harder onto the plug as you fuck me with it while pressing your mouth against every part of me you can reach: biting and lapping at my jaw, throat and shoulders before stabbing your tongue into my mouth for another rough kiss.</p><p>Being on the edge for so long is making me sweat with effort and as the first sharp waves of pleasure start to hit I cry out sharply, frantically fisting at my cock as I tug your hair with my other hand. “It’s good,” I gasp. My voice is hoarse from so much panting and when you give the plug a twist I yelp then catch my lower lip between my teeth. “Oh God. <em>God</em>. It’s so good.”</p><p>“So good,” you repeat. “<em>Sei cos</em><em>ì bello in questo modo</em>. You really like it, don’t you beloved?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, fuck, I like it. I like it so much.”</p><p>“I know you do: your body is very eager.” You pull the plug out nearly all the way then pause a few seconds before plunging it back in again with another deep thrust. “I’d be inclined to resent it, except I know that you’ll take me even better when the time is right. Are you going to do that for me, Will? Are you going to spread your legs like you’re doing now? Are you going to beg me for it? I’d like to see you beg. You’d do it so beautifully it would be impossible to resist you.”</p><p>This time I just groan and you put a steadying hand on my chest as if you’re counting my breaths before slowly trailing it downwards to push my legs wider apart. For the first time you also move your eyes from my face, and I can immediately tell that you’re admiring the sight of me stretched around the glistening end of the plug. If possible the idea of this turns me on even more as I grow aware of how hot and heavy my cock feels between my legs – the way the blood is pulsing there – and how I’m helplessly leaking all over myself as my body clenches and tightens, already quivering on the verge of orgasm. The anticipation is unbearable and your teasing strokes along my thigh and hipbones are close to outright torture. I make a gasping sound, eyes widening at how intense it is, then tremble and gulp in frantic gulps as you run a soothing palm up and down my leg.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” I whisper. I sound exactly like I feel: desperate and fraught, slightly out of control. “I’m going to…oh God…I think I’m going to come. I’m really close.”</p><p>I really am – I’m <em>so</em> close – but as soon as I’ve said it I find myself getting tugged upright so you can gather me against your chest. I make a frustrated groaning noise and you nuzzle my jaw then shower my face and hair with rapturous kisses.  “Look at you,” you say fondly. “You seem almost delirious.”</p><p>I repeat the groaning noise then pull back a few inches: flushed and almost cross-eyed with an overload of sensation. “What the actual hell?” I stammer out. Then I blink a few times, attempting to gather my scattered senses together, before shoving both hands against your chest in a gesture that’s only half-playful. “For God’s <em>sake</em>,” I finally manage to add. “Why did you stop?”</p><p>“<em>Because</em>,” you reply with provoking calmness, “things were going faster than I wanted them to.”</p><p>I attempt another version of the growling noise but ultimately just give up and slump forward instead so I can rest my forehead against yours. “Yeah: than <em>you</em> wanted them to,” I mutter. “Jesus, you’re such a sadist.”</p><p>“Hmm, yes,” you reply. “Very possibly.” Your tone is eerily hypnotic and is followed up with a quick smile – flickering and serpentine – which even in my current state I find faintly off-putting. I know you do it on purpose; regardless of the situation it’s like you just can’t stop yourself. If I had the energy I’d probably kick you.</p><p>“Not this time though,” you now add in your normal voice. “This time I stopped for your sake.”</p><p>“You <em>jest</em>,” I snap with heavy sarcasm.</p><p>“Not at all,” you reply. “I am entirely serious.”</p><p>You don’t <em>sound</em> particularly serious, but it’s not like there’s much I can do about it. When you make up your mind about something it’s like cement setting: I’d be better off just sorting myself out than wasting the energy getting you to change it. Admittedly jerking myself off when you’re just sat there looking smug and self-righteous isn’t the most erotic atmosphere in the world, but I’m past caring by this point. Anyway, fuck it – I like a challenge. I lie back on the bed and dart you a withering look (<em>Screw you</em>, the look says, <em>this is a DIY job</em>) but before I can even get started you’ve pounced down to grab my wrists, gently but firmly twisting them towards the headboard then holding them in place with one hand. For a few seconds I’m genuinely confused as to what the hell you’re doing, but then see you reaching into the bag again and give an angry gasp.</p><p>“Oh <em>hell</em> no,” I say. “No way are you tying me up. Don’t even think about it.”</p><p>You stare back at me without speaking, innocently twirling one of your ties in your right hand. Jesus though, why do you even <em>have</em> those? It’s like you’re beyond parody at this point. Only you would bother bringing designer neckties to a sweltering hot country while on the run from numerous law enforcement agencies.</p><p>“Just for a while,” you reply. “Only a <em>little</em> while.” Your expression is very beseeching; for a few surreal seconds I think you might actually start batting your eyelashes at me. “You’ve been in your head so much lately, Will. You need an opportunity to get back into your body.”</p><p>“No,” I repeat sulkily. It occurs to me, a bit too late, that I sound like a toddler refusing something.</p><p>“A compromise then.” You brush your mouth against my jaw – soft press of lips; barest hint of teeth – then run your fingertips around my wrists like you’re tracing where the binding will go. “I’ll do it very loosely. Then if you really want to free yourself you can.” You smile a bit then press another kiss against my nearest wrist. “Besides, even if I didn’t I’ve no doubt you’d manage it anyway. You are so <em>singularly</em> skilled at slipping handcuffs.”</p><p>I summon up an irritated noise which is truly magnificent in its expressiveness (it involves expelling air between my teeth and nostrils simultaneously, like someone blowing out candles on a giant cake). Even so I still don’t attempt to move, because despite myself I’m finding I’m not <em>entirely</em> opposed to the idea. Admittedly you’ve most likely guessed I’m warming up to it, but if so you don’t give any indication and just secure my wrists instead with a few neat flicks then give them a tug to test the tension.</p><p>“Oh God,” I say. “I can’t believe I’m letting you do this.” I can feel myself struggling not to laugh and you smile down at me in an unusually benevolent way before leaning down to secure a second tie around my eyes. You’re very careful with this last past, gently smoothing my hair out the way with your fingers to make sure none of it gets tangled in the knot.</p><p>“This is dumb,” I protest into the darkness. “How long are you going to be?”</p><p>“Not long.” There’s a rustling sound as you bend down to kiss the side of my cheek. “I’ll be back soon to take care of you, you have my word. In the meantime I just want you to focus on the sensation. That’s all. Don’t think – just feel.”</p><p>You trail a finger along both wrists like you’re admiring your handiwork then climb off the bed and vanish in a series of soft footsteps. Immediately I give my hands a cautious tug. I’m expecting the worst, but to my surprise it seems you were telling the truth for once and really have left them loose enough to get free if I want to. The ties are made from a material that’s very soft and smooth, most likely silk, and the one across my face has a lingering trace of your cologne on it. There’s something comforting about the smell and I wonder if you’ve done it on purpose. Then I tip my head back and strain my ears, struggling to work out where you are and what you’re doing. The implication was you were leaving the room but knowing you you’ll probably just stay here the entire time, watching and waiting in silent satisfaction. Then I close my eyes (which is admittedly pointless, considering I can’t see even when they’re open) and begin to buck my hips, frantic to get the pressure where I need it. Only I can’t manage it with the position I’m in and after a while I’m aware of growing so desperate to come it almost feels painful. Oh God, I bet you <em>are</em> here watching. I bet you’re loving it; you’ve always enjoyed seeing me unravel. The plug somehow feels much bigger at this angle: stretching me wide open and seeming to sink deeper inside me every time I squirm.  </p><p>By now my body’s getting damp with sweat as my focus shrinks and constricts to the intensity of the sensation. It doesn’t feel like I’ve been here too long, but I have no idea how much time has really passed: it could be minutes or hours. I draw in a ragged breath. Breath out. Try to concentrate and find I can’t, because oh God – everything’s so intense. <em>We’re </em>so intense. We’re all-consuming, and it doesn’t even matter anymore because right now I want us to consume each other and I want to watch it happen…wind it up and watch it go. A part of me is <em>desperate</em> to call for you, but each time I open my mouth a sense of pride prevents me and forces me to close it rather than admit defeat. Instead I decide I’ll count down from 100, promising myself that if I really can’t stand it then I’ll pull my wrists free when I get to zero. Except this plan fails too because I can’t focus well enough to keep count – and which means when you <em>do</em> finally appear to give the plug a slow twist I lose control completely: crying out and then shuddering so hard you have to wrap your free arm round my waist to make keep me still.</p><p>“<em>Mylimasis</em>,” you say. You sound incredibly pleased with yourself; it’s kind of infuriating. “I’m here now. I promised I’d come back.”</p><p>I want to make a sarcastic remark about coming but I’m honestly past it. I just groan instead as for a few seconds I feel your hand curling round my throat. Your fingers are so firm and dextrous; it’s bizarre to realise you could crush it right now if you wanted without any effort at all. At some point you’ve also managed to untie my hands and remove the blindfold, but I’m still too spaced-out to do anything except lie there with my eyes closed. Then I’m vaguely aware of you talking again, only it feels like too much effort to focus on what you’re saying. What <em>are</em> you saying? It sounds like ‘please’, which in itself is vaguely suspicious. You almost never make a point of asking for things (as opposed to just taking them directly) so I finally open my eyes: at which point I go so rigid with outrage I nearly sprain a goddamn muscle.</p><p>“What the <em>hell</em>,” I say, “do you think you’re doing?” My voice has come out as a kind of hiss and I have to clear my throat a few times in an attempt to speak more normally. “Don’t even think about it.”</p><p>Most people would have the grace to at least <em>pretend</em> to be embarrassed, but of course you just sit there with your favourite Mona Lisa smile while casually holding a black leather collar which you knew I hated the idea of and have still gone out and acquired anyway. Where do you even get such epic levels of shamelessness? It’s like you’ve found somewhere to buy it (along with all the fetish gear). To prove how completely unrepentant you are you just lean forward to kiss my neck. I can feel your hand flitting around my face as you do it: caressing my cheek, stroking my hair, then tenderly tucking a stand behind my ear.</p><p>“It’s all right, beloved,” you murmur between each slide of your tongue. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you.” You’re using the sort of languid, sensual tone that always goes straight to my groin, and despite knowing it’s total bullshit it’s still incredibly hard not to feel turned on by it. Oh fuck! Does that mean I’ve got a voice kink as well as a praise kink? I bet it does. I bet I have. “Just let me…” you add in the same soft voice. “Just for tonight.” You wrap an arm beneath my shoulders then continue to stroke my face, your touch tender while also totally relentless. “Please, Will. Just for a little while. Just let me. Just let me have you…”</p><p>I open my mouth to say no, only to find myself falter then close it again. I think it was the ‘please’ that’s got to me. There’s a genuine hint of vulnerability in the way you said it, and it occurs to me that while I’m the one being asked to submit, I’ve still got the real power in terms of being able to give or withhold what you want. In fact, I suspect it’s more than something you want; it’s something you <em>need</em>. It’s not like I’m unaware how possessive you are, but moments like this are a glimpse behind the curtain of how deeply dependent you are on wanting to believe I belong to you. Also unspoken – yet somehow incredibly obvious – is how this desire to assert ownership is in some way linked to Jack. Not that this is surprising, because from your perspective I guess he’s become both predator and prey. You want to kill him (preferably with me to help you), but at the same time you see him as the one person who might be capable of luring me away from you back to America.</p><p>Mulling this over I find myself starting to look at you with a renewed sense of understanding. It’s true that the request is out of order; you already knew I didn’t want to do this. Yet I can’t really bring myself to resent you for it, because no matter how stressful your desire for me sometimes feels I know I’d still miss it if it wasn’t there. In a strange way it reminds me of the fires I used to light on a winter’s night in my old life: something blazing, searing, and a little overwhelming when left unattended, yet ultimately impossible to comfortably live without. Admittedly I’m no keener on the thought of wearing a collar than I was when your first mentioned it (like, <em>at all</em>) but it won’t do any harm either – and ultimately the urge to reassure you and make you happy feels greater than any lingering sense of self-consciousness. So in the end I just give a small nod (accompanied by a stern ‘Just this one time’) and you let out a long, blissful sigh before leaning forward to fasten it round my throat. You do this very cautiously, slipping a finger underneath to make sure it’s not too tight, then checking none of my hair’s got tangled in the buckle before letting out another breathy sigh as it snaps into place.</p><p>“<em>Beloved</em>,” you say, beginning to press ecstatic kisses against my face. “Look at you. <em>Sei perfetto</em>…if you had any idea.”</p><p>You’re still not fully undressed but I can tell from the tented layers of fabric how <em>incredibly</em> hard you are and wonder, somewhat hazily, how you’re able to stand how uncomfortable it must be. In fact the sight of it is more than enough to snap me out of my previous mood, creating little quivers of anticipation as you kiss my forehead then glide your hands downward until they’re resting on my thighs and you can trace small circles against the skin. Your fingers glide easily over smooth sweat-slick skin and I give a stifled moan as you go still for a few moments then gently nudge my head back to lick into my mouth. I tangle my fingers into your hair without breaking the kiss then drop my own hand downwards so I can wrap it round my achingly hard cock. A part of me wants to savour the moment and make it last, but that’s virtually impossible by now. Instead I just rub my thumb around the head a few times, rhythmically squeezing and stroking before abandoning any attempt at self-control and thrusting down the entire length in a sort of frenzy.</p><p>You make an approving noise at the sight of – a rich vibration deep in your throat – while gazing down at me like someone transfixed. Jealousy would normally prevent you from being so encouraging, but this time there isn’t any hint of it and I suspect it’s your way of rewarding me for agreeing to the collar. “That’s it,” you add, followed by few murmured endearments in Italian. “Just like that. Give yourself what you need.”</p><p>“Oh God,” I say hoarsely. “<em>Yes</em>.” The sensation of the whole thing is phenomenal: it’s like every nerve is on fire as we rock against each other, searching out each other’s mouths as I let out a stream of increasingly urgent noises that are breathy and broken, punctuated every few seconds by pulling away to gasp out your name. Your skin against mine is as hot as a brand as I writhe in your arms, arching my back into a stronger curve then planting my feet against the mattress to get enough leverage to grind against you. You’ve got your hand over mine now, guiding the rhythm and dictating the speed to perfectly match the way your other hand is pounding the width of the plug against my prostate. In a way it’s close to being too much and a part of me want to ask you to stop, whereas another never wants it to end…how is that even possible? I angle my neck instead, bending it into a painful twist to reach your mouth then pillaging like my life depends on it as I fist at my cock with my free hand. The plug is buried <em>so</em> deep in my ass by now that when I thrust my hips the double stimulation is so intense it’s almost overwhelming.</p><p>“Oh God,” I gasp out. I sound completely wild, like I’m on the verge of unravelling. “Oh fuck...”</p><p>“Breathe Will,” you say softly.</p><p>“I can’t, it’s…it’s just so…”</p><p>“Just breathe with me.”</p><p>I bite back another moan then lean forward so I can swipe my tongue along your top lip. “Don't stop. Just...oh please, <em>please. </em>It feels so good.<em>”</em></p><p>“It’s all right,” you say. “I’m not going to stop.”</p><p>The rasp of my breath is loud and harsh in the silent room as you trail a hand between my legs, carefully cradling my hip with the other. Then I gasp again, jerking my face round to scavenge at the delicate skin of your shoulder with my teeth. I do it harder than intended – at one point tasting a coppery tang of blood – then slump back against the pillow, my breath coming out in staccato pants as I feel my thighs start to quiver with the strain of it. This time when you give the plug a sharp twist it’s enough to make me cry out, trembling then going totally rigid as my cock spasms over both our hands with a thick flood of pre-come.</p><p>“<em>Mylimasis</em>,” you say. You sound so gentle. It’s unusual; it’s like another side of you comes out when we’re like this. I just mutter your name again and you gently tug my lip between your teeth before starting to kiss your way down my chest. You take your time over it – very slow, very deliberate – then finally settle between my legs so you can slide your tongue around the tight, slippery skin surrounding the plug.</p><p>“Oh God, oh <em>fuck</em>.” I sound a bit unhinged by now: it’s like it’s too much to process. “I’m…oh <em>God</em>. Oh God, I’m going to come. I’m coming, I’m…oh God, Hannibal…”</p><p>I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this – it’s not as if it isn’t obvious. But I still do it anyway (and then keep on informing you about it, even after I’ve come all over you) before slumping back against the pillows like someone half-dead. I’m so oblivious, in fact, that it feels like I’ve been lying there for hours before I finally clue into what you’re doing: namely propping yourself between my trembling legs so you can leisurely jerk yourself off. You’ve got the familiar possessive glint in your eye which makes it very easy to guess what you have in mind. Even so, the fact I’m expecting it doesn’t change how intense it feels when you abruptly yank the plug out and press the thick, swollen head of your cock against me instead. Not only is your timing perfect, it seems I’ve been stretched open <em>incredibly</em> thoroughly because you’re able to come deep in my ass without even needing to fully push in. I’m convinced I can actually feel it – a series of thick, hot pulses, some of which spurts onto my thigh – and when you pick up the plug again I give another stifled moan then bury my face in my arm. Instinctively I know that you’ll want to take your time over the next part, and of course you do: using your fingers push your come as far inside my body as possible, applying a few teasing strokes with the blunt head of the plug, then finally pushing it back in as slowly as possible so you can savour every quiver and breathy gasp I can possibly make. Not that the caution is necessary: this time it slides inside incredibly easily with no resistance at all. You make a noise of obvious satisfaction then kiss my knee while I just lie there blushing and try to decide whether extreme enjoyment outweighs extreme mortification at what I’ve just let you do. Which is it? I can’t quite decide…it’s actually a bit of a dilemma.</p><p>“<em>Well</em>,” you finally announce into the silence. “I think that particular experiment counts as a success.”</p><p>For a few seconds I think you’re making fun of me but then I catch your eye and your expression is so relaxed and affectionate that I forget to feel awkward and just smile back instead. Then I roll my eyes at you (because old habits die hard) before slumping onto the bed in a dishevelled heap (because by now I’m <em>done </em>and I don’t care who knows it). You pull me a bit closer then brush your face against my hair.</p><p>“Don’t take it out yet,” you say. “I want you to sleep like this. I want you to keep me inside you all night.”</p><p>I crack open an eye and give you an incredulous look. “Seriously?” I say, even though I know that you are. It’ll be uncomfortable of course (as well as kind of gross), yet somehow the thought of how happy it’ll make you means I know I’m going to do it anyway. You glance at my face while trying (and failing) to hide the colossal smirk which is threatening to break out at getting your own way, then kiss me again before leaning down to unfasten the collar.</p><p>“I apologise,” you add in an unusually tender voice. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you to do this.” You drop it to the side of bed then gently turn my neck from one side to the other, checking for any sign of friction burns. “It doesn’t hurt?” you ask. I shake my head and you smile again then skim your lips against the length of my throat. “I appreciate you humouring me. You are very patient, my love. You were also perfect – you did so well.”</p><p>“So well at what?” I say wryly. “I came all over myself. It’s hardly Nobel Prize material.”</p><p>You laugh at this then kiss me for a fourth time, while I just lie there growing increasingly subdued at the intensity of what we just did (combined with a stinging sense of self-consciousness at the fact I let you do it at all). It’s clear you’re not concerned by this, but then I suppose you wouldn’t be. Anyway, you’re used to me having these moods. In the early days you’d attempt to rouse me out of them, but you’ve learnt by now that the best response is just to stay very quiet (for once) and let me come back to normal on my own. You now obligingly fall silent and I lie with my back to you for a while before finally thawing out enough to hitch towards you inch by inch until we’re tangled together with my head on your chest as you skim your palm along my spine. It’s kind of soothing but I feel like I need something more, so eventually drape myself across your body then wrap both arms around you instead (and then, after a bit of contortion, both legs as well). To be honest I’m not sure why I always gravitate towards you for comfort. It’s not like you’re ever guaranteed to say anything remotely comforting – as opposed to a string of cryptic remarks, or possibly nothing at all – and there’s always a chance the conversation will end up incredibly uneven with me rambling away on one side while you sit there in amused silence on the other. Nevertheless, I still always do it.</p><p>Once I’m fully in your arms you make a contented sound then gather me against you so you can rest your face against my hair. “I like seeing you like this,” you say eventually. Your voice is incredibly soft, like all the rough edges have been buffered off. “You look so peaceful. Vulnerable too: and I admit, I like that as well.”</p><p>“Why?” I ask, even though I already know.</p><p>“Because it shows you feel safe with me.”</p><p>“I guess I do,” I say wryly. “God knows why.”</p><p>Briefly you tighten your grip and when you speak again I feel like I can hear the smile in your voice. “Indeed. I suppose it could be said that I’m not the most…trustworthy of individuals.”</p><p>“Yeah, I suppose you could say that.” I laugh a bit then scrub my hand across my face. “I must be crazy.”</p><p>“No,” you reply in the same fond way. “That wouldn’t be my diagnosis.”</p><p>Of course I should know as well as anyone that your diagnoses (or lack of) mean jack shit, yet I still can’t help feeling touched by this. You never saw me as damaged in the same way everyone else did. In your philosophy, flaws and dysfunctions become badges of honour; something to be admired. I smile to myself then make a small wriggling movement at the awareness of how you’ve begun to stroke my arm.</p><p>“Stop it, please,” I mutter. “That’s…” I pause slightly, trying to think of a more dignified word than <em>tickles</em>. “It’s uncomfortable.”</p><p>“What, this?” you say innocently, doing it again.</p><p>I make a growling sound to discourage you, only it goes wrong halfway through and turns into a yawn instead – and which I assume you must find endearing, seeing how you promptly return your fingers to my arm to try and make me do it again.</p><p>“Don’t,” I say, doing my best not to laugh. “Ugh, if I wasn’t so tired I would <em>end</em> you.”</p><p>“Would you really? Then I suppose it makes sense for me to take advantage of the situation while I still can.”</p><p>I roll off you a little bit until I can see your face then give your hair a playful tug. “Don’t patronise me, old man,” I say. “You think I couldn’t end you?”</p><p>“I think there are very few people who could successfully attempt such a thing,” you reply in the usual leisurely way. “However, I accepted some time ago that you would be one of them.”</p><p>“You don’t believe that at all do you?” I pretend to pull your hair again then smile at you beatifically. “You’re so vain. It’s just like your attitude to Jack: you think you’re infallible. You’re turning into the stereotype of a macho alpha male meathead.”</p><p>“I am most certainly not,” you reply with dignity. “You are a ridiculous boy.”</p><p>“You are a ridiculous narcissist.”</p><p>You make a long-suffering noise and I smirk to myself then settle down again until I’m in the crook of your arm and can rest my head on your shoulder. You press a kiss against my temple and I squirm a bit then abruptly clear my throat, gripped by a sudden urge to change the subject and distract from how unsettled I feel at the thought of Jack – despite me being the one who mentioned him.</p><p>“Hey, I’m sorry I bit you earlier,” I say, giving your face a nudge with my own. “I got a bit carried away.”</p><p>“Don’t be. It’s fine.”</p><p>“But I hurt you.”</p><p>“I’m afraid you flatter yourself beloved,” you say languidly. “It would take far more than your tiny little teeth.”</p><p>I laugh at this, grateful for a way to vent some private tension, then scramble back on top of you so I can deliver a small bite to your shoulder blade. You make a vaguely inconvenienced noise but don’t pull away.</p><p>“Is that so?” I add. “I’ll show you tiny teeth.”</p><p>“Enough,” you say in amusement. “Stop nibbling me.”</p><p>“No, I shall not.”</p><p>“Indeed you shall.”</p><p>“Make me,” I say. Then I remember the conversation downstairs and can’t help adding: “Hannibbles.”</p><p>For a few seconds you look like you’re struggling not to laugh. “You are a menace,” you finally reply. “You are also unnatural. How is it that you can make rudeness seem positively charming?”</p><p>“Because you’re a huge hypocrite.”</p><p>“Oh yes,” you say. “I suppose that must be the reason.”</p><p>I smile again then reach out for your hand so I can tangle our fingers together. “You know I <em>really</em> don’t want to think about Jack,” I add in a more serious voice. “I don’t know why I brought him up just now.”</p><p>“Because you’re preoccupied with him,” you say. Your tone of voice makes it clear that you’re not exactly overwhelmed with joy about this. “Imagine how <em>very</em> flattered he would be if he knew.”</p><p>“No, I’m not. And no, he wouldn’t; he wouldn’t care.” I give you a nudge again. “Stop projecting. Not everyone’s as obsessed with me as you are.”</p><p>“It is not a matter of being obsessed.”</p><p>“Yes, with <em>Jack</em> it’s not. Anyway, he’d be less interested by me thinking about him compared to the context I’m doing it in. Namely as your…” I pause again; I’m about to say ‘boyfriend’ but even as a joke it feels too stupid. “As your housemate,” I finally add.</p><p>You make a humming noise of agreement then gently disentangle yourself from my arms so you can lay me down flat against the mattress and drape yourself across me. As a gesture it’s both protective and possessive – something you’re particularly prone to whenever aspects of our old life are mentioned – and while the smothering sensation sometimes bothers me right now I’m happy to accept the attention. Instead of tugging free I therefore huddle even closer before reaching round to rearrange the sheet to make sure you’re comfortably covered up. Then I fall quite for a few seconds, turning over my last statement in my head and trying to grapple with the gravity of what it means. Not that Jack would ever believe it: he could walk in right now and would probably find it easier to accept it was a pair of extreme lookalikes than the reality of us in bed together. I wouldn’t even blame him. Sometimes I still struggle to believe it myself.</p><p>“It’s so weird,” I say vaguely. “Isn’t it?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The whole situation, I guess. I could never have imagined us this way. What we just did – you know?”</p><p>“I do know, beloved. I was there at the time.”</p><p>I make a half-hearted attempt to kick your leg. “I just would never have thought we could be like <em>that</em>.”</p><p>“You mean as lovers?”</p><p>“Yeah. At least…kind of. I don’t know. It’s hard to explain.” I pause again, too tired to devise a proper response yet also cautious about saying too much and not making sense. “I guess I could <em>try</em> and describe it,” I say cautiously.</p><p>“And do you intend to do so?” you reply when nothing follows except silence. “Or shall I be required to guess?”</p><p>I roll my eyes again. “I’m not sure. Anyway, I feel self-conscious now. I’ve built it up too much.”</p><p>You smile then lean down to press our foreheads together. “Then say it quietly.”</p><p>“Well, I guess it’s that I kind of saw you as <em>more</em> than that,” I eventually reply. “More than just sex.”</p><p>As a statement this seems pathetically inadequate for the depth of feeling I’m trying to express, but you don’t seem at all offended. It’s one of the things I’ve always appreciated about you: how skilled you are at decoding the meaning behind words.</p><p>“Good,” you reply. “That way we still have something more for which to aspire.”</p><p>“You understand what I mean?”</p><p>“Yes, of course I do. As it happens I feel the same way.”</p><p>“Tell me,” I say. I hate the way I sound: gauche and slightly shy, like something in a novel from the 1800s where intimacy is the ultimate taboo and people resort to elaborate rituals rather than say what they mean. I can’t help it though. Even after all this time I still don’t feel I’ve fully mastered the right language to discuss these things.</p><p>“W-e-l-l,” you reply thoughtfully, “what does it really mean to describe someone as a lover? I suppose in the most basic sense it refers to sexual intimacy. <em>Eros</em>, as the Greeks would have it. Fervent passion and anguish, like love set on fire…like hurtling headfirst from a cliff.” I groan a bit at this and you laugh then lean down to nudge the side of my face again. “Of course there are other ways to love a person,” you add. “<em>Philia</em>: friendship, and a meeting of minds. Or <em>agape</em>: selfless love.”</p><p>“Selfless love,” I repeat. “You really believe that?”</p><p>There’s a small pause before I feel you tighten your grip round my shoulder. “No,” you say quietly. “There is no such thing, because love is selfish. We don’t love as an act of charity. We love for ourselves, and thus feel elevated and emboldened through the act of bestowing our love. You, for example – the indomitable Will Graham. You don’t wish to be loved as much as you wish to be understood. Yet no one can be fully aware of another human being unless we love them. With that love, we see potential in our beloved. Through that love, we allow our beloved to see their potential. Expressing that love, our beloved’s potential comes true.”</p><p>You wait a few moments but this time I don’t interrupt you and after another pause you kiss me again then take hold of my hand so you can caress the knuckles with your thumb. “Betrayal and forgiveness are akin to falling in love,” you add in the same low voice. “So that’s why I understand what you were trying to say, because I also see you as <em>more</em>. More than a lover; more than an encounter for the body, but as an awakening for the soul. Like Plato’s <em>Symposium</em>: a single soul inhabiting two bodies. One might have many lovers, yet the true object of desire can never be replaced. There is only ever one imago, Will. Only one twin flame.”  </p><p>A long silence now follows this speech where I just continue to lie very close to you, focussing on the sensation of your breath against my face as I stroke my hand against your shoulder. Really it should be my cue to go to sleep; it’s not as if there’s anything much more to say. But as tired as my body is my mind is still racing, and I suddenly find myself blurting out (low, intense, and without even fully meaning to): “I’m never going to leave you.”</p><p>The only response is more silence and I realise I’ve even managed to surprise myself with my outburst. In fact, I’m not entirely sure what prompted me to say this. Maybe it was that <em>please</em> from earlier? Or possibly it’s the yearning tone of your voice? But whatever it is, it’s made me recognise how much I want to make you understand that this time I’m here for good. The fact you’re so silent yourself confirms I might have triggered you more than intended and I now reach out to take hold of your face in my hand.</p><p>“Hannibal, look at me,” I add. “I’d never go back to America. Not unless you were there too.”</p><p>Even now you still don’t speak. It’s lasted long enough now to feel unsettling, but I can’t force you to confide unless you want to so in the end just push myself nearer to you then hook my arm around your neck. It’s an obvious attempt for closeness and reassurance, and you react by holding onto me even tighter than before.</p><p>“I love you,” I say softly.</p><p>There’s another pause: in the darkness I can see your eyes gleaming. “Please tell me that again,” you finally say.</p><p>This time it’s my time to stare. This is so unlike you; I can hardly believe you’ve asked me. “What, do you think I don’t or something?” I reply. “What happened to that genius level IQ?” Then I feel ashamed of myself, because it’s obvious this flippancy is just about covering my own discomfort when I should be focussing on giving you what you need. It’s unbelievable, really. All the conversations we’ve had across the years – all the dismemberments of our darkest thoughts and deepest desires; all the dissections of murder and madness – yet it’s still a frank examination of my feelings for you which makes me lose my nerve.</p><p>“I love you,” I say now, much more firmly than before. “<em>Ti amo</em>. <em>Je t’aime</em>. <em>Es mīlu tevi</em>.” Your lips twitch into a smile at the last one and I smile back then gently stroke your jaw with my thumb. “How can you need to ask that?” I say. “Don’t you believe me?”</p><p>“Yes,” you reply; and the simplicity of this single syllable amid your usual eloquence feels faintly heart-breaking in how sincere it is. “Yes, I believe you. But don’t forget how long I waited to hear those words from you, Will – I waited a very long time. The sound of them is never going to lose its appeal.”</p><p>“Not even in my Lithuanian accent?”</p><p>“On the contrary,” you say. “It is endearing in how abysmal it is.”</p><p>I laugh at this then give your hair an affectionate ruffle before leaning forward to press a kiss against your forehead. I’m so tired now, my eyes seem to be shrivelling shut. The physical intensity of the last hour was more than enough, yet it somehow feels like nothing compared to the emotional force of the past few minutes. I’m not sure I can think or talk anymore…can’t really do anything except fall asleep in your arms, safe in the knowledge that when I wake up tomorrow you’ll be the first thing I see. I can feel your hand moving up and down my back now, very slow and rhythmic as if trying to soothe us both into peacefulness.</p><p>“That’s it,” you say softly. “Stay close to me, my love: rest while you can. I know you’re concerned about the future. You think there’s a storm coming and most likely you are correct. But it’s nothing to fear. Nothing more than another part of our journey.” There’s a rustling sound as you reach up to stroke the side of my face; choosing, as usual, the side with the scar. “Try to trust me, won’t you?” you add in the same soft voice. “Trust me as much as you can. Because it’s all for you – all of it. And it always has been.”</p>
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<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey guys. As some of you know the comment section’s become a bit of a bomb site recently and it’s got to the point I’ve had to switch on AO3’s moderation feature :-( I don’t usually delete threads where people have already replied, but my ability to deal with this stuff is really low at the moment and I had a big purge on anything that turned up from Saturday onwards. As such I wanted to apologise to anyone who spent time writing troll-slaying messages only to see them disappear – rest assured I read all of them beforehand and your support is enormously valued and appreciated &lt;3 Any remaining threads have been locked, so please don’t try to reply to them as you won’t be able to post it.</p><p>All this has thrown me off my game a bit and unfortunately I didn’t manage to get much writing done this week. If the update seems a bit disjointed it’s because it’s basically just the first half of chapter 11, but I’ll do my best to get part 2 posted ASAP.</p><p>Lots of love to you all in the meantime (and don’t forget to eat the rude) xox</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The wound on my neck is hurting. More accurately it’s <em>still</em> hurting, which seems excessive. It’s been over an hour since it happened after all…surely it should have eased off by now? The pain has a fiery sharpness to it which prickles and stings in bright-edged jags and feels like it would be blistering hot when touched, even though the wound itself isn’t a burn but a stab. Such a small blade as well – little more than a pocketknife – and I’m still angry with myself for failing to see it sooner. Normally, I think I would have done. But instead there was a domino effect of tiny mistakes and miscalculations that ultimately led to me to move left instead of right and earn a long gash straight across the trapezius as punishment. The most obvious of these was watching you instead of the knife, but you’d seemed so striking and splendid in that moment it was difficult not to. You were a bit like a panther in your long dark coat: powerful and sensuous, all coiled muscle and rapacious energy. A true <em>danse macabre</em>, rather like that session in the living room all those nights ago, with each movement choreographed for flawlessly lethal effect. And if I’m honest it was also the result of overconfidence, because tonight’s target was singularly unimpressive and well below our usual standards. A shuffling shambling man with the clumsy aggression of a bear, indicted last year on a string of assault charges then let off on a technicality following a lengthy court case. The carrying of the knife suggests paranoia, so it seems he was expecting judgement might one day come for him – although I think it’s safe to say that he’d never expected something like us.</p><p>Not that these reasons really matter though; there’s no real excuse. This lapse of attention could have been fatal, and I know I need to be smarter than that for both our sakes. Right on cue my neck gives another flare and I briefly get preoccupied thinking about how many different adjectives there are for pain (<em>aching, piercing, pounding</em>) and how they’re often used to indicate the source of the injury when you suddenly appear behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I don’t suppose you meant to, but you’ve managed to creep up with the usual silent tread and I jump so violently I let out another yelp of pain (<em>searing</em>).</p><p>You wait patiently until I’ve landed on the chair again then give my shoulder a quick stroke. “Cut it out,” I say sulkily. “Stop sneaking up on me.”</p><p>“I apologise.”</p><p>“Good. Do it again and I'll have to put a bell on you.”</p><p>“A bell?” You place the first aid kit on the table then reach up to adjust the overhead light, twisting it at several angles until my neck’s been spotlighted to your satisfaction. “Isn’t that what one does with cats? I’d have thought you’d prefer a more canine-orientated solution. At any rate, you are very welcome to try.” A faint smirk follows this statement, which I’m tempted to translate as: ‘and if you ever do, little man, I will <em>end</em> you.’</p><p>I have a brief smirk myself at the thought of you in a tiny plastic collar with a bell on the end, then close my eyes and suck in my breath with a fizzing hiss of discomfort as you push my head down.</p><p>“So what’s the damage?” I ask through gritted teeth.</p><p>“Glue might be sufficient.” There’s a small pause, presumably while you look a bit closer. “Actually, no. I’m afraid sutures are going to be necessary.”</p><p>I sigh loudly then give an unhappy flinch as you start to swab a strong-smelling liquid against the cut. You stroke along the side of my arm in apology. “I know it hurts,” you add gently. “I’m sorry, but we’re running low on benzocaine.”</p><p>I repeat the sighing sound – only this time against myself because I’ve realised I was the one who forgot to order any. You tilt my head further down while I’m doing it then massage across my shoulder blades with your free hand. “Are you injured anywhere else?” you ask.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Are you sure?”</p><p>“Of course I’m sure.”</p><p>Even as I’m saying it I know you won’t listen and sure enough you don’t; instead insisting on running through the usual checks (which include, but are not limited to, blood pressure, pulse and a penlight shone in both eyes) despite my noisy protests that none of it is necessary. You give a satisfied nod when you’ve finished then turn around again to retrieve some forceps and a length of surgical thread, the sight of which pre-emptively make me wince. I’m feeling seriously sorry for myself by now, so let out a third sigh for good measure. This one is more martyred than the previous ones and involves a rather elaborate ritual of inflating both nostrils like a seal. I must look ridiculous: thank God you can’t see. Even so, I don’t have any genuine concerns at what’s about to happen and the realisation of this is slightly surprising. When did I become so relaxed about placing my body’s wellbeing into your hands? I can’t really remember. It seems to have happened so naturally I wasn’t even aware of it.</p><p>“I told you I was fine,” I say vaguely.</p><p>“I know you did,” you reply, calmly pulling on some latex gloves. “But it never hurts to be sure.”</p><p>“He <em>tried</em> to stab my chest,” I add, “but the blade didn’t penetrate.” Briefly you run your finger across my cheek but don’t reply. “It wasn’t even close…ow. <em>Ow</em>. Shit, that really hurts.”</p><p>You make a soothing sound between your teeth. “I need to do it Will. Try and bear it a little longer.”</p><p>I draw in another lungful of air then grip onto the armrest so hard I can see my knuckles turn white. Surely I could have borne it better than this in the past? My pain threshold used to be so high: it’s like it’s softened and dissolved after months of not being needed.</p><p>“The edges are clean,” you’re now saying, half to yourself. “It’s wide but not deep.”</p><p>“That’s good,” I reply. Or at least I hope it is…to be honest I’m not really sure. Would it be better if it were deep but narrow? “Are you nearly done?” I add hopefully.</p><p>“Nearly.” You make a tugging motion with the thread then reach into the first aid kit again for a pair of scissors to neatly snip the end off. “It will probably scar but at least your hair will hide the worst of it. I doubt anyone will notice.”</p><p>Of course I know that <em>you’ll</em> notice, although somehow you don’t seem to count; I could be covered in scars and you’d still enjoy looking at me. I shrug without thinking, followed by a shuddering wince as a fresh bolt of pain promptly shoots through my shoulder. “I don’t mind,” I add. “One more to add to the collection.”</p><p>“Indeed,” you say fondly. “You are going to run out of room.”</p><p>“I won’t.” I reach out and give you a prod with my foot. “Plus I can enjoy the novelty of having one that wasn’t caused by you.”</p><p>“Yes, I suppose I can’t really fault your logic there.” You close the first aid kit then turn round to give my hair an affectionate ruffle, taking care the entire time not to jolt my head. “I’m afraid it’s beyond my power to remedy the past ones. However, at the very least I guarantee that anyone attempting future damage will have to answer to me.”</p><p>You sound very forceful, and I have a surreal – and rather amusing – image of sending you out into the world to wreck vengeance on my behalf like some sort of medieval warlord (or possibly that witch in the Wizard of Oz with the flying monkeys). There’s no doubt you’d be extremely good at it. I suppose you <em>do</em> have your uses; unlike me, who has to put way more effort into looking imposing with far less impressive results. The difference in how Matteo relates to us both is an obvious example of this and I find myself frowning again, suddenly resentful of the way you’re able to exude better badass vibes than I can. Although I suppose I at least have a massive badass at my permanent disposal, which is some measure of consolation. Now I start to cheer up again. If life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or, to put it another way: if life has given you a rather feeble non-badass appearance, than go on the run with a gigantic badass whilst making full use of their badassery for your own self-serving purposes…</p><p>“Will?” you say.</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“I asked you if you wanted anything.”</p><p>“Did you?” I say lamely. “Sorry. I wasn’t listening.”</p><p>“I know, I can tell. Perhaps you should lie down? You’ve lost a quantity of blood – and painkillers on an empty stomach will no doubt be having an effect.”</p><p>I blink back at you a few times as I silently digest this. Come to think of it I <em>do</em> feel a bit light-headed: I suppose that explains my deranged mental rant about lemonade and flying monkeys. Oh shit, I hope I didn’t say any of that out loud? I didn’t, did I? Oh God, I bet I did. I bet I said it out loud…</p><p>You repeat my name again and with an effort I force myself to focus and try to think of something to say which won’t end up sounding like crack ravings. “Actually I do,” I finally reply. “Have you got a mirror?”</p><p>You retrieve a small lens case from the cupboard and I stagger off into the hallway so I can hold it in front of the large wall mirror to inspect the back of my neck. “It’s not so bad,” I say in surprise. “At least it won’t be thanks to your repair job.” Awkwardly I twist my face from one side to another, admiring the meticulous row of tiny stitches. “Could you teach me how to do it?”</p><p>Abruptly you now appear behind me in the mirror; I can see your eyes gleaming slightly from over my shoulder. “Yes, if you like,” you say. “Suture training kits are very easy to come by. I could order you one tomorrow.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Of course the implication is that one day you might require a similar service yourself, although it seems neither of us wants to acknowledge this outright. “You’re good at it, aren’t you?” I add.</p><p>You give a modest shrug. “I do my best, I suppose. These days I rarely have the opportunity to practice.”</p><p>“Mmm, I don’t know about that. A few more nights like this one….”</p><p>“There will not be more nights like this one,” you say firmly. “It was merely the exception that proves the rule.”</p><p>“And what rule is that?”</p><p>“The one which says we are entirely in control of our actions.”</p><p>You announce this in a very self-assured sort of way and for an awful moment I think you’re about to add something about how ‘<em>Fortune favours the bold’</em> or being ‘<em>Masters of our own destiny,’ </em>because in my current manic state it’ll be impossible not to start cackling like a goblin at anything so pompous. Fortunately you don’t, although your tone certainly implies it: it’s like you can’t even fathom a scenario in which either of us won’t succeed. Such cosmic levels of confidence are rather enviable, even though I can’t help feeling how dangerous they might also be if one day your judgement really <em>does</em> fail. I now wrinkle my nose at you in silent accusation of being a big arrogant bastard then on an impulse reach out to cup your face in my palm instead.</p><p>“Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’re so…” The word I’m thinking of is <em>perfect</em>, only it’s not quite right because it fails to capture how you’re perfect in your extreme imperfection. “You’re so <em>you</em>,” I say finally – and which probably wouldn’t make much sense to anyone else, yet still feels more accurate for describing your sheer uniqueness. “I don’t care that everyone out there is scared of you,” I add, even more fondly. “When you’re in here you belong entirely to me.”</p><p>“Indeed I do,” you reply with a slow smile. “Happily so.”</p><p>To be honest I’m not really sure why you’re so happy about it. I know I wouldn’t be if I were you: most of the time I’m a massive pain in the ass. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I add, even though I’ve asked the same question about seven times already (and which is a further sign of hypocrisy, seeing how I always get annoyed when you won’t take my word for something.)</p><p>“I appreciate the concern,” you reply, “but my response is unchanged from three minutes ago when you last enquired.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” I say beadily. “So what’s that?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“<em>That</em>.” I roll my eyes at you then dramatically pull back your shirtsleeve so I can inspect your forearm. “You have a <em>graze</em>,” I say. Even to my own ears I sound ridiculous; anyone would think you had a compound fracture, or possibly a third arm. Mostly this is a result of my earlier crack ravings, although even when feeling normal I suspect I’d still over-react. Considering everything I’ve witnessed across the years it’s not like I’m overly sensitive to injuries, but there’s always something about seeing <em>you</em> hurt that’s guaranteed to bother me.</p><p>“It’s fine,” you add. I lean down to inspect for myself then make a regretful cooing noise that manages to sound worryingly like a pigeon. Ugh, it really does – surely I didn’t just emit such a fucked-up sound with my own actual vocal cords? I decide to do it again, just to be sure, and am forced to conclude that, yes, it’s <em>definitely</em> a pigeon. This is rather depressing. It means that if there was a pigeon who was high on crack and benzocaine and had lost a lot of blood, then that pigeon would be me.</p><p>“But it’s <em>bleeding</em>,” I say.</p><p>“It’s fine, Will. You of all people should know I’ve had far worse.”</p><p>“When did it happen?”</p><p>“I’ve no idea. I was barely aware of it until now.”</p><p>I repeat a more subdued version of the pigeon noise. “Keep an eye on it won’t you?” I say. “Those small cuts always get infected.”</p><p>“I’ll keep an eye on it. Both eyes, in fact.”</p><p>You’re smiling now, and it suddenly occurs to me that you do genuinely enjoy my interest in your wellbeing. I suppose it’s a novelty for you to have someone so concerned over whether you’re okay. Most of my life I’ve had the opposite problem. I get asked so much it feels like a borderline insult, the implication being that <em>of course</em> there must be something wrong with me – and always will be.</p><p>“Good,” I say. “You do that.” I give you a pat on the cheek that’s deliberately playful, the same way I might do to a child, and you smirk a bit before doing the same thing straight back, only about ten times harder.</p><p>“Stop it,” I tell you when you look like you’re about to do it again.</p><p>“Or else what?”</p><p>“Or else…” I go silent for a few minutes, trying to muster a suitable threat. “Or else I’ll throw you off another cliff.”</p><p>This makes you laugh out loud before gathering me up to your chest so you can rest your face against my hair. “It seems we are both all right,” you say. “Which is more than can be said for the gentleman this evening.” You go quiet for a few seconds then briefly tighten your grip. “You should have given me more time with him Will. I’d have liked to instruct him more thoroughly on the error of his ways.”</p><p>“You weren’t the one he stabbed.”</p><p>“Precisely,” you say. “He stabbed <em>you</em>.”</p><p>A part of me wants to point out that I don’t need anyone sticking up for me, but finally decide not to on the grounds of how ungrateful it would look. Besides, I know I’d act exactly the same if you’d been the one who got hurt. If that knife had got anywhere near <em>your</em> neck I would have ripped him limb from limb; in comparison I let him off quite lightly when he only sliced against mine. It’s actually a bit bizarre to realise that in these terms my own skin seems to hold less value to me than yours does.</p><p>“You were <em>magnificent</em> tonight,” you now say. I make the familiar awkward grunting noise I usually do in response to praise and you add: “I knew you would be. You always are.”</p><p>“I was careless.”</p><p>“You are appraising your performance a little harshly. You are here and relatively uninjured…” You pause then deliver one of your eerie little smiles. “While your opponent is dead in an alleyway.”</p><p>“That’s not the point. I should never have let him get so close to me.”</p><p>“It wasn’t as close as all that. The injury is superficial: I sutured it to minimise the scarring, but it would have healed on its own regardless.” You give a little rumbling sigh of satisfaction then hook your arms around my waist so you can tug me even closer. “Your own diorama of death, Will,” you say sardonically. “Your own work of art. So how did it feel this time? I’m curious to know.”</p><p>It's clear you’re getting turned on at the thought of me being violent and while I know I should be disturbed by it I’m far beyond that point by now: I hurtled past it that night on the cliffside, and if I’m honest I’ve never really looked back. And neither, of course, have you – even for an event like tonight’s, which was almost brutally sordid in how simple it was. The pinnacle of your satisfaction always comes when I allow myself to shake off any lingering shreds of restraint or principle and indulge whatever dark display happens to be running through my mind (<em>Not dark</em>, you’ll always say. <em>Radiant</em>. <em>Visionary</em>) but this time I was clear I didn’t want to – not with Jack so close by and any of our more ‘artistic’ inspirations guaranteed to attract a level of scrutiny I desperately don’t want. You were disappointed of course, just like I knew you’d be, but there’s no doubt how even this ruthlessly streamlined version still managed to captivate you. I suppose, in a rather ghoulish way, you’re simply being pragmatic. The spectacular slaying of a Great Red Dragon is hardly an everyday occurrence after all, so in the meantime you’ve learnt to satisfy yourself with the successful stalking of much lesser prey…exactly the same way I have.</p><p>“It felt real,” I now say; partly because it’s what you want to hear, but mostly because it’s true. “It felt like I was being myself.”  </p><p>“Creating your own canvas, yes. Only not with brushes and paint but with flesh and blood – with bone and breath.” There’s a hum of energy in your voice now; if I glanced up I’d half expect to see it crackling through the air, kinetic and merciless. “So much poetry, boldness and beauty in that moment Will…so much life even in the midst of dying.”</p><p>“Okay,” I say wearily. It’s strange how your responses don’t unsettle me yet somehow my own still can. “I know. I just…I don’t want to keep talking about it.”</p><p>“No, I don’t expect you do. You want to file it away in your little mental cabinet, along with all the other taboos you wish to pretend you don’t indulge in.” You pause then give me a long side-eye. “I expect there is an extensive shelf in there devoted entirely to me.”</p><p>“Actually, you have your own cabinet.”</p><p>This makes you smile a bit, even though I suspect you don’t think it’s particularly funny. “Yes, I suppose I have,” you say. “How else could you go out into the world and pretend to be so virtuous. You’re a singular combination of attributes aren’t you Inspector Graham? A genuine desire to please yet still bristling under the weight of social expectations – rebelling at conformity whilst simultaneously wishing to conform.”</p><p>“I’m serious,” I say. “Just leave it, please. I’m not in the mood. Not right now.”</p><p>“But <em>I</em> am,” you reply; and which of course is going to settle it, because it’d be easier to stop a hurricane then stopping you from pursuing something you’re in the mood for. “I was watching you carefully tonight,” you add, “and you seemed so comfortable with what you were doing. It gave me enormous pleasure. Do you want to know why?”</p><p>“No,” I say wryly. “Not really.”</p><p>Admittedly I’m not expecting my lack of interest to deter you and of course it doesn’t. “The reason,” you reply, without missing a beat, “is that I don’t think even you can appreciate how <em>incredibly </em>uncomfortable you used to be most of the time. All that empathy…it destroyed you in so many ways, didn’t it? It made you distance yourself from people and cause them to see you as remote and unapproachable, when all the time you were just trying to protect yourself.”</p><p>Immediately I find myself catching your eye, consumed with a sudden surge of emotion that’s not entirely welcome. It’s like I’m feeling grief on behalf of my previous self. “Yes,” I say bleakly. “I know.”</p><p>“So do I,” you reply in an unusually gentle voice. “I know very well. <em>Mano meil</em><em>ė</em>…how sad you were. I remember watching you leave a crime scene once: you had tears in your eyes, you were so disgusted and devastated by what you’d had to put yourself through. The way you’d pause and frown, then run a hand across your face like you were trying to chase the despair away. Such <em>aesthetic</em> misery, Will. You had the strained, haunted look of an El Greco saint; it was like being in your own skin was unbearable to you on a daily basis.” You fall silent for a few seconds then run your palm across my forearm, tenderly stroking the flesh as if in sympathy. “The skin that was forced to house the darkly chaotic mind…no wonder it was in perpetual discomfort. You wanted to bear a more typical mind, didn’t you? A more ‘normal’ one. Not that it was your fault; you’d never learned to appreciate the privilege.” I can’t help smiling slightly, beginning a mental countdown for how long it’s going to be before you find some way to take credit for this. Sure enough you add almost immediately: “It was very fortunate that you had me there to show you.”</p><p>I roll my eyes a bit then give you another nudge. “I’m surprised you’re so happy about the improvement. You always enjoyed seeing me uncomfortable.”</p><p>“Yes, perhaps I did. Your discomfort was rather addictive. One might even say I <em>relished</em> it.”</p><p>“Yes,” I say drily. “I think one might safely say that.”</p><p>“If only there had been a way to bottle it up and breathe it in,” you add. “It would have been something for a bystander to savour in small, exquisite sips. You were so innocent relative to everyone around you, Will. Like the Lamb of Revelation. A symbol of tormented justice, striking down the evil-doers with godlike vengeance. Yet look at you <em>now</em>.” Gently you tilt my head upright so you can gaze directly into my eyes, virtually pinning me in place with the intensity of the stare. “There you are Will Graham: dwelling in both the minds of those who are murdered and in the minds of those who murder them – between the authority of ending life and the helplessness of having it taken. And what do you do? You transform horror into the aesthetic. You control your environment with the hand of an artist. You compose a virtuosic rhythm…you construct the perfect design.”</p><p>By now I can’t quite decide whether I’m more amused or annoyed and ultimately settle for a kind of hybrid of the two. “Can’t you just turn it off for once?” I say. “Stop trying to analyse me. Anyway, you can talk: you seemed to be having a pretty good time yourself.”</p><p>“True,” you reply, with another faint flicker of the mouth. “We both lost control to differing degrees. Humans often tend to do so when confronted with such primitive, elementary drives. Sex...death; how they consume us. We think we are so civilised, don’t we? But we are not.” A delicately suggestive silence follows this statement, in which it’s not entirely clear whether the ‘we’ refers to human beings in general – or me and you in particular – and you stretch and smile a bit then add: “Only think how confused the police are going to be.”</p><p>Seeing how I <em>don’t</em> want to think about this (or, more to the point, how Jack’s confusion is due to get added any day now) I don’t actually bother to reply. Not that my reluctance, just like my disinterest, is ever enough to put you off. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” you persist, right on cue. “You’ve gone so silent.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, you’re talking enough for both of us.”</p><p>“But now I wish to listen to you. If you don’t want to talk about tonight then tell me something else instead.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Whatever you like.” You kiss my hair again then let me go so you can stroll over to the cupboard. It seems you want to retrieve a bottle of wine, and whereas I’d just grab the closest one you make a whole task of examining them: pulling out assorted bottles and rejecting the inferior ones before finally locating one that’s to your liking. I watch you the entire time with an expression of fond exasperation on my face. “I’m still waiting,” you add, as you place the chosen bottle on the counter. “You can speak without restraint: there’s always a high chance I’ll find what you say to be diverting. Besides, I like the sound of your voice.”</p><p>“Do you?”</p><p>I must seem surprised because you immediately turn round and give me one of your more feline smiles. “Have I never told you that before?” you say. “Because I do. I’m not overly fond of American accents as a rule but yours is an exception.” You smile a bit more then casually raise your glass in my direction. “It’s soft, but not irritatingly so. There’s a dry edge to it which is very pleasant; it dilutes the gentler aspects and prevents it becoming too sweet, the same way good wine balances bitterness with piquancy.” You take a sip from your glass then narrow your eyes slightly like you’re trying to think of something else. Yeah, you actually are aren’t you…oh my God, you’re <em>still</em> not done. “I also enjoy that little rasp you have on some of the vowels,” you finally add. “You do it when you grow animated; it’s rather like you’re catching your breath. Then there’s an abrasiveness which pummels round the occasional word. It reminds me of sandpaper; as if you sometimes scour your opinions prior to sharing them.”</p><p>You finally come to an end of this speech and I just stand there and blink a few times, struggling with a sudden urge to laugh. “And now you have gone silent again,” you say. “I suppose you are going to withhold me the gift of your voice. I should never have admitted my weakness for it.”</p><p>“Look, I’ll tell you what,” I say. “I’ll cut you a deal: I’ll give you my voice if you can keep your own to yourself for two minutes together.”</p><p>Your smile promptly widens and I walk over to stand behind you so I can wrap my arms round your waist. “You’re ridiculous,” I say. “And I’m tired – I’m going to go to bed. You can have my voice tomorrow.”</p><p>“Very good,” you say. “I shall hold you to that promise.”</p><p>I smile too, despite the fact you can’t see me, then reach down to untuck your shirt so I can stoke my hands along your abdomen, admiring how smooth and warm your skin feels above the powerful slabs of muscle. You smell like almonds and cedarwood, a touch of the antiseptic, and underneath it all that musky, undefinable scent that’s uniquely you. I’m not sure what point I began connecting this smell to a sense of comfort and security but there’s no doubt it’s become the case. As I press down again you give a small shiver and I gently grind my hips against your leg so you can feel how hard I’m getting before leaning forward to kiss your neck.</p><p>“Hurry up and finish that,” I murmur against your skin. “I’ll wait for you upstairs.”</p><p>You obediently take another sip of the wine but as I start to move away you dart out and catch hold of my hand. “You know I meant what I said before,” you add. “Aside from the certain glamour you used to lend to misery, I much prefer to see you contented.”</p><p>“Well I guess that’s an improvement,” I say. “Thanks.”</p><p>“It’s true. My aim is for you to reach a time where you never have cause to be melancholy again. And that metaphorical bottle I mentioned? That bottle would be the only lingering memory of it. If I wanted to relish your previous sadness then I’d have to do it through remembrance only.”</p><p>In spite of myself I’m rather struck by this phantom version of myself and spend a few seconds trying to imagine him – one who’s perennially calm and contented, maybe wearing the same serene smile as you do – before giving it up as impossible to manage. It seems such an improbable alternative; I doubt I’d even recognise him if I met him the street. Of course the fact you’ve conjured him up at all is an obvious reference to the chaos of all my current struggles, but there’s no way I’m in the right mood to get them out and examine them. Not, admittedly, that I <em>ever</em> seem to be in the right mood – in this respect it seems you’re doomed to wait for a series of revelations that stubbornly refuse to happen. It’s actually rather ironic, because my awareness of this has become yet another source of conflict, and while I know it’s not my fault I always end up feeling guilty anyway.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” I suddenly blurt out. You raise your eyebrows and I add: “I know I’ve been difficult recently.”</p><p>“No more than you usually are.”</p><p>You’re smiling as you say this and I can feel myself shaking my head. “No,” I protest. “I’m serious.”</p><p>“As am I.”</p><p>“I just wish things could be simpler,” I continue rather wildly. A part of me wants to add ‘<em>like they were before’ </em>but even as I’m thinking it I know the sentiment isn’t the right one. Admittedly the presence of Jack and Matteo – not to mention the impromptu marriage proposal – have created extra difficulties, but it’s not like things were ever really <em>simple</em>. We’re both a cascade of complexity after all. We always have been. Simplicity seems a stupid thing to wish for, childlike and pointless in its naivety. Even so, I can’t fully help myself from wanting it.</p><p>“I understand,” you reply, even though I’m not sure you really do. You fall silent for a while then finally catch me looking at you and give a rather mournful smile. “I apologise,” you say. “I was distracted. Only your expression just then – it made me think of my sister.”</p><p>This is a subject that’s extremely rare for you to mention and I’m never entirely sure how to handle it when you do. You stare back at me without speaking then smile again and give a small shrug. “I suppose that sounds patronising, but I promise it’s intended as a compliment. You happen to remind me of her quite a bit. She had considerable physical beauty, just as you do, but it’s really more a question of temperament. A certain softness and susceptibility…and a quiet need to be loved.” Briefly you fall silent again and I know you’re wordlessly remembering that small sister – long dead now, but whose memory never seems to fade or blemish – and when you finally continue there’s a distinct tone of sadness in your voice. “Sometimes she’d look at me exactly the same way you do; very thoughtful and appraising with a hint of challenge. I always found it impossible to deny her anything.”</p><p>“I know,” I say eventually, even though this is a lie because I <em>don’t</em> know. I don’t truly know about your grief for your sister, or how it relates to who and what you became…sometimes I feel like I don’t know anything at all. Even so, I’m aware that you’re being unusually open with your emotions and it seems like the least I can do is reciprocate with some disclosure of my own. “It just…it feels like my life’s have been put on hold,” I finally add. “I’ve felt like that for a while. You know? Like I’m just waiting for things to get better.” I pause for a few seconds then cast you a quick, guilty look. “I guess you’re waiting too.”</p><p>“Yes, it’s another talent of yours it would seem,” you reply, calmly returning the stare. “To be so sought after and waited upon. The imperative hardly matters: whether it’s with tolerance, or impatience, or a quiet anticipation – how willing we all are to wait for you.” I must look puzzled because you now add: “I’m not just referring to myself. It’s a spell you appeared to weave across most people from the very first time I met you. After all, even <em>you</em> are waiting: waiting to know and accept the essence of yourself. You’re waiting so patiently aren’t you Will? You’ve been waiting your entire life.”</p><p>I stare back in silence, reluctant to get drawn into the implications of this, and you slowly stroke your eyes across my face for a second time in a way that lingers on my lips and eyes. “Not that waiting is any particular virtue in itself,” you eventually add. “It’s only when one can appreciate the value of what is being waited for. And likewise, of course, to understand exactly <em>why</em> it is that one is prepared to wait.”</p><p>I take a deep breath. “But no one can wait forever,” I say. “What if things don’t change?”</p><p>You smile at me, briefly tender and thoughtful again, then solemnly tip your glass in my direction. “Then we shall do what is obvious of course,” you reply. “Which is to accept more patience is required and wait a little longer – on and on, for long as is necessary. And if it never occurs then we shall accept that as well. I waited for you for <em>so</em> long Will; you can hardly think I’d lose my stamina now? Besides, I believe I could accept you in any form you presented yourself in.” You smile again then slowly raise your glass at me for a second time. “Why not? After all, I loved you when I thought you were perfect. Then I finally realised you weren’t – and I loved you even more.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It doesn’t occur to me straight away. But the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems how much your behaviour has started changing since the news about Jack. This isn’t even including what you’ve <em>said</em> about it, rather a more general sense of your mood and attitude, and it’s also nothing particularly notable – nothing that most people would probably even pick up on. But I understand you well enough by now to recognise your tells, and I’m convinced there’s a certain energy beginning to simmer below your surface which wasn’t there before. On the other hand, one thing that <em>isn’t</em> clear is how far you’re intending to take because it’s always been so difficult to predict you in advance. It could be something spectacular you’re planning, or it could be nothing at all: you’re so cool and aloof it’s easy to get deceived by you and end up overlooking those ravenous extremes which are barely restrained by a veneer of polite propriety – and even after all this time together, I still can’t reliably tell. But then that’s always been a talent of yours, hasn’t it? Your veneer is just so damn convincing (and elegant, and compelling), yet that doesn’t change the fact that it’s still a façade; and one that I, of all people, should be able to spot by now.  </p><p>Briefly I now find myself thinking about the veneer on the cabinet in my childhood bedroom: the way I used to lie in bed during successive sleepless nights and pick away at it to see what was underneath. Most of the time you seem to be more brain than body, so coolly controlled and glacially calm that I could shiver in your air, whereas the hints of what lie beneath this outer coating – this veneer – are always volcanic. But then they’re also…what would the word be? I frown for a few seconds, trying to work it out. Finally I settle for <em>intoxicating</em>. It’s a term closely linked with alcohol or drugs and I turn it over in my head a few times before deciding it’s still the right one. It’s something that makes me feel glazed and heady, like being in a heat-haze or spinning on a carousel; the type of feeling that should be described by swirling cursive letters on a billboard or poster because normal plain adjectives can’t adequately capture it. <em>Drunken and dazed on darkly destructive delights…</em>at which point I realise I’m talking complete crap and should just drop the whole thing. Even so, there’s still some truth to it, because the thought of what you’re capable of has always disturbed me while still providing an equal degree of fascination. I suppose it’s partly what drew me to you in the first place, then has kept me hooked ever since. Love and repulsion, all blended together.</p><p>Thoughts like this are never guaranteed to put me in a good mood (as opposed to several varieties of shit ones) so I finally decide to give it up and just head downstairs instead, where I find you basking about in the living room with a book in one hand and a supremely contented expression on your face like the cat that got the canary (every canary…<em>all</em> the canaries). Giulietta has only just left, so it’s safe to assume that this chilled-out persona is at least partly for her benefit. You’re very chameleon-like in that way, effortlessly using your charm to blend into the surroundings. Not, admittedly, that it’s just a straightforward case of camouflage because it’s also something that predators do. Of course I can blend in too when I want to – almost as well as you can – although in my case the motivation is different because I mostly do it so survive and minimise harm, the same way a real chameleon does. It’s not about being charming as opposed to trying to stay safe. You, on the other hand, probably have a range of motives although I suspect none of them are all that important – mostly I think you do it just because you can.</p><p>I haven’t made any noise, although can still tell the exact moment you detect my presence from the way you tilt your head then shift aside very slightly in an obvious invitation for me to sit next to you. I walk over then give your hair a quick ruffle; partly out of affection, but also because seeing you with mussed-up hair is always inexplicably hilarious.</p><p>You sigh a bit over the hair ruffling, then wait until I’ve sat down before smoothing it back into place (shooting me wary looks the entire time as if suspecting I’m about to do it again). “Good morning,” you say. “You slept very well.”</p><p>“I did, yeah. I was more tired than I realised.”</p><p>“And how is your neck?”</p><p>“Okay, thanks.” I lean forward like I’m about to go for your hair then struggle not to laugh at the way you jerk your head away. “A little sore, but nothing too bad. What about your arm?”</p><p>“I have been keeping both eyes on it, exactly as promised.”</p><p>“Let me see it.”</p><p>You dutifully roll your sleeve back so I can lean in again to inspect the damage. It looks worse in the daylight – surely far more painful than you’re admitting to – although the edges have already begun to contract and there are no obvious signs of infection. I give a satisfied nod when I’ve finished and you replace your sleeve then gesture to where your laptop is open on the desk. “I was curious to see if the news had covered our outing,” you add, “but apparently not.”</p><p>“Good,” I say firmly. “The less attention the better.”</p><p>You don’t seem very convinced by this, although I wasn’t really expecting you to be. I suppose as far as you’re concerned the attention is part of the point. Instead of replying you just reach out to take hold of my chin, moving it from one side to the other so you can examine my face. Judging from the way you’ve started frowning it’s safe to assume you’re not particularly pleased with what you see. “You’re extremely pale,” you say finally. “You should try and rest today.”</p><p>“I told you. I’m fine.”</p><p>“Perhaps you are, but you lost a lot of blood.”</p><p>“Not as much as all that.”</p><p>“It was enough. You also had the stress of being sutured with inadequate anaesthesia.”</p><p>“Did I?” I say, pantomiming surprise. “Thanks for letting me know.”</p><p>“You should rest,” you repeat in a brisk, doctorly voice. “Contrary to what you like to believe, you’re not actually indestructible.”</p><p>I open my mouth to make another sarcastic reply, only to notice your expression then find myself changing my mind and closing it again. It seems unfair to keep rejecting your advice, not to mention rather juvenile. After all, it’s clear that seeing me injured has bothered you – and I know if our situations were reversed I’d feel exactly the same.</p><p>“Okay then,” I say, trying my best to sound placatory. “You’re right. I’ll take it easy.”</p><p>You seem surprised that I’m giving in so easily, but in the end just make a humming noise to indicate approval before returning to your book again while your other hand rests casually across my thigh. I obediently tip my head back and close my eyes, although after a few minutes get so bored with it I end up opening them again. Your own eyes promptly reappear from over the book and begin to crease in a way that means you’re smiling.</p><p>“Resting,” I announce towards the ceiling, “is tedious<em>.</em>”</p><p>“Evidently.”</p><p>“Yes, well, it was your idea – you should entertain me.”</p><p>“Should I? That’s a rather difficult commission; you are not especially easy to entertain.”</p><p>“That’s your problem,” I say smugly.</p><p>“Yes, I suppose it is. Perhaps you’d like me to read to you?” I wave my hand in a ‘maybe’ gesture and you hold up the book so I can inspect the cover. “It’s a history of <em>Certosa di Firenze</em>.”</p><p>“The Florence Charterhouse?”</p><p>“Correct. A Carthusian monastery, founded in the 1300s.”</p><p>“Oh,” I say. “That sounds…” You raise your eyebrows expectantly. “Restful.”</p><p>“By which you mean tedious.” You smirk a bit then dart out to take hold of my shoulders, levering me round until I’m lying across the sofa with my head on your knee. I make a half-hearted attempt to struggle upright and you quickly drape your arm across my chest to stop me.</p><p>“I apologise,” you say when I make a protesting noise. “You’re not really designed for confinement, are you? You’re so fluid and loose-limbed. You should be roaming free.” I repeat the protesting noise, this time a little louder, and you smile again then run your fingers through my hair. “You know I remember thinking that when I first met you,” you add. “How much more comfortable you seemed to be when roving around the room or leaning against furniture rather than sitting in a chair. It was one of many times you caused me to surprise myself, because I’d find a similar habit incredibly irritating in anyone else. In your case, however, such restiveness was rather captivating.”</p><p>I have a private smirk of my own then stretch my arms out behind my head. It’s actually pretty comfortable lying like this…I suppose I might as well stay where I am. “Good,” I say. “Then captivate me.”</p><p>“With the Carthusian monasteries?”</p><p>“Yes, why not? I thought you liked a challenge.”</p><p>“I understand your scepticism, but as it happens I do <em>not</em> consider it a challenge. Monastic life would have indeed been rather tedious most of the time, yet they could also be a source of drama and sedition of the most intriguing kind. Anywhere that’s a centre of power will inevitably do that. It will grow corrupt – although perhaps the opposite is also true, in that power attracts the corruptible. Either way they were a common destination for the educated and solitary-minded, and had I lived in such times I might have ended up in one myself.”</p><p>I make a loud snorting noise then promptly start choking on my own spit; you give another smirk then politely sit there and wait until I’m able to breathe again. “<em>You</em>,” I finally manage to say. “In a <em>monastery</em>?”</p><p>“Yes, me in a monastery. Why not? I think I would have enjoyed myself immensely. I would have had hours of leisure to study and contemplate, then hours more to amuse myself with ministering to the fallen and forsaken.  Not to mention all my fellow monks of course.” You wait a few more seconds, presumably so you can enjoy the expression of profound disbelief on my face, then begin to idly wind a strand of my hair round your finger. “Just imagine how diverted they would have been to hear my thoughts about religion.”</p><p>I repeat a more subdued version of the snorting noise.  “’Diverted’,” I say. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.”</p><p>“Well, considering a chief duty of theirs was dispensing charity then one would think they could have surmised it for themselves with little input from me. Charity is a perfect example of God’s inherent dislike of his creation. Consider, after all, how He has taken it upon Himself to dispense sufficient bounty to the world to furnish the needs of only several million souls with good food and warm clothing – not to mention education, sanitation and accommodation – while leaving <em>wholly</em> inadequate supplies for the billions of others who require the same.” You pause then smile rather sardonically. “This, of course, is God’s idea of entertaining Himself.”</p><p>I give you the obligatory eye-roll, although now you’ve mentioned it I can’t help feeling it’s not <em>totally </em>impossible to picture you as an abbot in some medieval priory. After all, most of those guys were renowned as being Epic Bastards so no doubt you’d fit right in. Briefly I fall silent as I try to imagine it: sweeping through stone corridors in a dark cloak by day then scheming by night with Dukes and Cardinals about staging a rebellion or diminishing a rival as the candlelight flickered across your angular face. Even so, the spiritual angle is admittedly a bit of a reach.</p><p>You catch me looking at you and start to smile again, this time rather complacently. “Yes, it would be a pleasing paradox wouldn’t it?” you say. “Seeing how I am so <em>very</em> irreligious. It could be said I possess the kind of mindset that means when I leave my bed each morning, the Almighty almost certainly gives an involuntary shudder and remarks: ‘How unfortunate. It seems that <em>he</em> is awake again.’”</p><p>Even for you this is ridiculous and I can’t help starting to laugh. Your own smile begins to broaden at the sight of it before you reach down to trail a finger along my throat. “So what about you?” you say.</p><p>“What about me?”</p><p>“How would you have fitted into such a setting?”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have fitted in at all. Let’s be real – the only thing less likely than <em>you</em> in a monastery is having <em>me</em> in one.”</p><p>“Oh, I don’t know about that. I think you would have made a very charming novice. Besides, in those days a monastery was a natural home for solitary young men of high intelligence and a certain emotional…intensity. No, I don’t consider it at all unlikely that you would have found yourself taking orders.”</p><p>“It is not <em>remotely</em> likely.”</p><p>“I disagree,” you say firmly – which means as far as you’re concerned the matter is settled and I’m now going to have to sit through an elaborate, long-winded speech where I’m cos-playing a medieval monk. I give a rather martyred sigh then close my eyes again, attempting to prepare for the worst of it.</p><p>“Yes, it’s an enticing image,” you add. “In fact, the only thing to improve it is if you’d been <em>my</em> novice. Imagine my rapture if you’d been delivered to me as a postulant? I would have singled you out immediately of course, just as I did in our real-life acquaintance. <em>This one is different</em>, I would have said to myself. <em>There is something special about him</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I say wryly. “I bet you would.”</p><p>“So, what would I have done with you?” you reply, beginning to stroke my throat again. And then, before I can reply: “Actually, I can answer that myself, because I would have been the one responsible for examining you upon your arrival. A very sincere enterprise, you understand – simply to determine your fitness for monastic service. An assessment of your purity, both in body in mind.”</p><p>I give a smirk that’s almost as dramatic as yours then tip my head further back to provide better access to my neck. “Sincere,” I say without opening my eyes. “Right.”</p><p>“Very sincere,” you reply in an exaggeratedly innocent voice. “Where would I begin, I wonder? Perhaps I would have spent some time simply watching you – which would admittedly be rather inefficient, yet still deeply enjoyable regardless. You’re very striking, after all: I’ve always liked looking at you. And here I have you in an unfamiliar habitat. I am like a naturalist observing something very rare and wary and trying to win its trust. You wouldn’t have liked that, would you? You’ve never been prepared to appreciate how attractive you are. But as pleasurable as it would have been it couldn’t go on indefinitely because, of course, I still have a job to perform.”</p><p>“Yes,” I say, dipping my head and pretending to bite your forearm. “Your completely unnecessary job, you idiot. Haven’t you decided that you’re going to accept me anyway?”</p><p>“But <em>you</em> wouldn’t have known that, would you?” you reply in the same rhythmic voice. “Your lack of awareness therefore plays to my advantage, and I intend to derive the greatest possible benefit from it. Speaking of which, I believe I’d have begun with a check of your general health. Dental hygiene, for example. What do you think, Will? Such things were a constant aggravation in those days, so I imagine I would have begun by asking to examine your teeth. I’d have held your face very still with one hand, then slowly slid my finger into your mouth.” As you’re speaking you press against my lower lip, obviously expecting me to let you do it for real; I smirk at you again but stubbornly refuse permission. “I would have stroked your jaw with my thumb as I was doing it,” you add softly. “Not because it was necessary, but simply so I could enjoy your confusion as to whether such a tender touch was deliberate or not.”</p><p>I tip my head even further back then open my eyes just so I can give you A Look. “So in other words,” I say, “you’d have spent the whole time trying to manipulate me.” </p><p>“Manipulation is such a pious term, beloved. You sound just like Jack. I would merely be attempting to determine your desires without asking outright.”</p><p>“Yeah, exactly,” I say with heavy sarcasm. “You’d be manipulating me.”</p><p>“If you insist,” you reply in your usual leisurely way. “But how glad you would be that I am. After all, I’ve barely even begun with you yet. My next task would be to assess your physical fitness. I’d ask you to turn around then walk up behind you and stand extremely close: close enough for you to feel my breath on your neck. You’d be very wary, of course, but you’d have no choice except to obey.”</p><p>“<em>Actually</em>,” I pipe up, “you’ve already done that. Your reincarnations need to learn some new stalking techniques.”</p><p>“But why?” you say blithely. “When my methods are already so effective? You are asking me to reinvent the proverbial wheel. Besides, I would not content myself with merely standing behind you. I’d let you wait a little while – <em>just</em> enough to let your anxiety grow – before reaching round to run my hand across your chest. You’d have to tip your head back against my shoulder to provide enough access. It would be as if I were embracing you.” You pause again then do it for real, the touch very gentle and exploratory as you deftly flick open the top few buttons of my shirt. “Hmm, yes – excellent. Firm and well-muscled with no sign of malnourishment. You are clearly suitable for manual labour.”</p><p>“That’s good,” I say, beginning to arch my back beneath the stroking. “What’s next then? Are you going to make me go and dig your Monastic potato fields?”</p><p>“I am not.” You unfasten a few more buttons, listening to the way my breath begins to hitch as your palm dips further beneath the collar. “I expect you’d be growing uneasy by now, wouldn’t you? You’d be concerned such touching wasn’t entirely appropriate. I can just imagine the troubled expression in those large eyes of yours, staring up at me and wondering what I was going to do to you next.” You pause for a second time then slowly stroke your palm across my stomach, clearly savouring the way it makes me quiver. “In fact, your unease would be so obvious that my protective instincts would have briefly taken over. I’d have put my hand on the back of your neck, I think. Partly for reassurance but also, I confess, because I’d want an excuse to touch you again. Then I’d have said your name very gently as I caressed you. My skin would probably have felt rather cool against yours and it would have made you tremble. <em>Please try to cooperate</em>, I would have said; but you would not have been able to do so, because by now you would have grown quite frantic with anticipation. My poor boy: all your resistance would be in vain, because unfortunately for you I am not close to being finished. After all, I still have the most important test to the perform: inspecting for any signs of carnal sin.”</p><p>“Carnal sin,” I repeat. “Hmm, yeah…I bet you do.” Then I arch my back and roll my hips again, trying to encourage you to move your hand further down (followed with a small, frustrated sigh when you stubbornly refuse). At the sight of it you quirk your mouth into a smile before raising my hand to lightly scrape your teeth against it, the pressure <em>just</em> hard enough to sting.  </p><p>“Oh yes,” you reply silkily. “I understand very well what young novices are like. All of you crowded together in those little dormitories. Especially one as beautiful as you are – it’s almost impossible some older colleague hasn’t taken you by the hand one night to lead you towards his bed rather than your own. Is that what you’ve been doing <em>mano meilė</em>? The two of you lying together, perhaps: the sheets growing damp and tangled as you explored each other’s bodies while the others gathered around with their candles to watch? Or perhaps you haven’t…perhaps you are completely innocent. But either way I need to be sure.”</p><p>Your stroking is much more suggestive by now, although just like before you’re still refusing to touch me the way that I want. “Not that it really matters,” you add in the same soft voice. “Any forbidden games you’d played with other young men in the seminary would be nothing compared to what <em>I</em> could teach you. I could show you how to sin in such delightful ways.”</p><p>I open my eyes and give you what’s intended to be a beseeching look. “Okay then,” I say. “If you insist.”</p><p>This makes you smile again, your hand still hovering around my chest without moving any lower. “Yes, but you don’t know that yet, do you?” you reply. “You think this is a test you need to pass. You’d be extremely eager to please me…which means when I told you to take your clothes off you wouldn’t say no. You’d want to, of course, but you wouldn’t dare disobey a direct request. I’d lean back in my chair to relish the sight of it, privately enjoying your discomfort while pretending to be severe.”</p><p>“Then you are the worse monk ever,” I say. “And you should be ashamed of yourself.”</p><p>“Yes, I’m sure I probably ought to be.” You catch my eye then give me one of your more malevolent smiles. “But needless to say, I am not. Which is why I wouldn’t allow you to get dressed and leave, but instead order you to lay yourself down across my desk. I imagine you’d be getting cold by this time: completely naked as you are, in a bare stone room. I would add a few more logs to the fireplace to keep you warm and comfortable – a reward for being so well-behaved.”</p><p>“No you wouldn’t,” I say mutinously. “You’d be sat on your ass in your chair and ordering me to do it for you.”</p><p>“On the contrary. Why would I be sat away from you when I have an examination to perform?” You smile again then move your hand round to cradle my face, the other one slowly trailing across my ribs and waist. “I’d tell you to pull your legs up to your chest then stand over you to watch while you obeyed. I can just picture you, glaring at me with resentment and trying to prevaricate for as long as possible. Perhaps you would have told me you didn’t want to? ‘<em>I’m waiting</em>,’ I would have replied, and in the end you’d have no choice except to do what I asked. Even then, I admit, I would still do my best to prolong your suspense. I’d explain in <em>very</em> lingering detail that I intended to check for any signs of sexual activity, simply for the pleasure of watching you flush.”</p><p>“I would not,” I pipe up.</p><p>“Whatever you say, beloved. Perhaps it’s only the firelight on that pale skin that’s making you look so pink.”</p><p>I lean into your touch a little harder, pretending to bite your fingers when you press them against my mouth again. “I hope I’m lying on all your manuscripts,” I say. “Didn’t those things take, like, ten years to write?”</p><p>“Yes, no doubt you are. I suppose you’d be entitled to your revenge…although I should warn you that all the hand-written manuscripts in the world won’t be enough to deter me from what I intend to do.”</p><p>“So, go on then. What do you intend to do?”</p><p>This time your only response is to smile before reaching up to press the end of my nose with your forefinger. It’s an unusually playful gesture that makes me laugh – and which I suppose must have been your intention, judging by the way your own smile immediately starts to broaden.</p><p>“Exactly as I said,” you reply in a voice that, if possible, seems to have dropped to an even more smouldering pitch than before. “I am going to examine you. You’d be very extremely tense by now, so I suppose I’d have to apply a little lamp oil to make it easier for you to take. Just the tip of my finger to begin with, I think…gently coaxing you to open up for me. I’d ask whether anyone else had ever touched you there then listen as you stammered out a denial. I’d pretend to take it at face value, of course; let you think you had a chance of getting me to change my mind. But in reality it wouldn’t matter what you said, because I’d still do it regardless. Yet now we’d have a rather interesting situation on our hands, because no matter how much I tried to conceal it you’d start to sense my admiration for you. You’re so perceptive, you’d notice it almost straight away. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Will? It would excite you: you yearn so badly to be celebrated and accepted. So even though you’d be resisting me, I’d know that the rather charming flush on your cheekbones was no longer from embarrassment alone, but also from the first stirrings of desire.”</p><p>While you’re speaking you slide your hand into my shirt again, exploring, caressing then letting out low hums of approval each time you feel me quiver beneath the touch. “I can imagine the noise you’d make when you finally felt my finger push all the way in,” you add softly. “I’ve heard you do it before: a little breathy gasp, which you immediately try to hide. But now you are confronted with another problem because it’s sliding inside you <em>far</em> too easily. You’d know you ought to be responding to me with some tightness and resistance, but instead the opposite is happening. My poor boy, how humiliated you would be. You thought you were going to be examined in Latin and catechism, and instead you’ve found yourself naked with your legs spread open, desperately trying to disguise how much you like it. The way you’re clenching round me as if trying to pull me deeper inside you…all those beautiful little sounds of pleasure you’re making.  I’d have to find a way to keep you quiet wouldn’t I?” You pause for a few seconds then gently press your hand across my mouth as your other hand continues burrowing deeper inside my shirt. “Someone might overhear otherwise and come to investigate. I’m supposed to be sitting in my chair, questioning you from a respectful distance, to look but not to touch. What would our reverent colleagues say if they walked in and found you over my desk with my fingers inside you?”</p><p>I moan obligingly at the thought of it, spreading my legs even wider and letting out a small moan as your fingers brush across the edge of my belt. In fact I’m so hard I’m half expecting my jeans to split, and from the way your hand slides down to my thigh it’s clear that you’ve noticed it too.</p><p>“And look at that,” you say with obvious satisfaction. “Now the absolute worst has happened: you can feel yourself growing aroused. What a catastrophe for you. You know I can see how excited you’re getting, yet you have no possible way to hide it. Privately, of course, I would be charmed beyond all expression by how responsive you were being. You're stunning like that and I love to watch you enjoy it. Although perhaps just a <em>little</em> punishment too, for being so wanton and shameless.”</p><p>I immediately open my eyes again. “Don’t you dare,” I say loudly.</p><p>“But how could you stop me, dearest? I’m much stronger than you are.”</p><p>I now open my mouth as well to start arguing about it and you give another smile then quickly re-cover it with your hand. “Yes, another abbot would have you flogged for such a shameful display,” you say. “It’s very fortunate you have me here instead. Even so, I would still take the chance to tease you a little further.”</p><p>I give another frustrated groan, then jerk my face free while earnestly trying (and completely failing) to get you to move your hand between my legs. “You?” I say grudgingly. “Surely not.”</p><p>“Yes, I would,” you reply, with a spectacular lack of irony. “I would hide how overjoyed I was with your response and pretend to disapprove of it instead. ‘<em>This is completely unacceptable</em>’ I would say. ‘<em>You immoral boy, how full of sin you are. I have no choice but to chastise you</em>.’”</p><p>“Yeah, of course not” I say, attempting to nip at your fingers again. “No choice at all.”</p><p>“Absolutely none: after all, I have your spiritual salvation to consider. If anything I am doing you a good service. You should be grateful to me.”</p><p>“Rest assured, I am speechless with gratitude.”</p><p>“As you should be.” You give me a distinctly sardonic smile then pause for a more seconds so you can smooth my hair off my forehead. “Now, speaking of punishment, I would of course have a penitence stool in my study…”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>“…and I’d to lift you off my desk to make you kneel on it. I suspect you’d be trembling by this point. Partly from the cold, partly from desire, and partly with apprehension because you have no idea what I’m going to do with you.”</p><p>I stretch out rather wantonly, leaning into your touch as I try to make you notice the way I’m rolling my hips. “Okay then,” I say. “What are you going to do to me?”</p><p>“I would tell you that you have a chance to redeem yourself.”</p><p>“That’s nice of you.”</p><p>“And that you should attempt to demonstrate your purity by showing a little more bodily self-command.”  You give another little smile then adjust where my head is resting so you can tangle your fingers into my hair. Your other hand glides across my chest at the same time, your touch very gentle yet appraising as if you’re smoothing out fabric. “I would move behind you then kneel down myself so I could use both hands to spread you wide open. This time there’d be no need for the oil, beloved; instead, I’d use my tongue to get you ready for me. You’d be beside yourself within minutes wouldn’t you? I can imagine the way you’d gasp then go rigid as you felt my mouth begin exploring you in a such a very shameful place. How impossibly excited you’d be: helpless to prevent the way you were leaking your arousal all over the floor. I think I’d make you lick it up for me on your hands and knees before lifting you back onto your stool so I could begin the process all over again.”</p><p>“Oh God,” I say weakly.</p><p>You make an amused sound, clearly enjoying my reaction. “I suggest you don’t waste your time appealing to God. I’m afraid he is not going to be of much assistance to you – you are going to have to deal with me all on your own. And it would be quite a lot to deal with, I assure you, because I would refuse to show even the slightest shred of mercy.”</p><p>“None at all?” I say, pretending to be surprised. “That doesn’t sound like you.”</p><p>You smile again then finally remove your fingers from my hair so you can stroke my jaw with them instead. “I’d keep you in a state of the most wonderful suspense,” you add softly. “Franticly aroused, yet also overcome with shame at having failed my test so dramatically. Because, of course, you <em>would</em> fail it. You’re so sensuous and passionate it would be impossible for you to succeed. By the time I’d finished with you you’d be so soaking wet and slippery that when you felt my finger sliding back inside the sensation would be intense enough to make you orgasm almost immediately. You’d try to stop it happening of course, but you would be helpless to prevent it. You’d give a low moan then arch your back against me as you started to climax all over my floor. How horrified you’d be when it was over; you’d think you were about to be punished.” You give a small, satisfied sigh, presumably relishing your mental image of it. “By that point it would be impossible to disguise my delight any longer. I’d have to pull you close against me, wrapping my own robe around you to keep you warm then stroking your hair to comfort you.”</p><p>“No, you would not,” I say. I sound a bit pompous, but there’s no way I’m letting you get away with pretending you’d do anything except find an opportunity to be an even bigger bastard than usual. In fact, speaking of bastardry, you’re still refusing to touch me. I make another attempt to shove your hand towards my groin (this time not even pretending to be subtle about it), which makes you smirk a bit harder before cradling my face in your hand so you can press a kiss against my forehead.</p><p>“My exquisite penitent,” you say with obvious fondness. “What fun we would have – keeping you in constant confusion by administering tests of purity you were always destined to fail. Just think of all the opportunities I would find to bring you to my study to debase you even further. A few times a month I’d even take you into my bed and keep you there all night. It would be a tremendous risk, of course, but I’d happily take it. I would enjoy corrupting your body immensely; just before the even greater pleasures of corrupting your mind.” </p><p>My eyes have been screwed closed but I now open them again just so I can roll them at you. “Okay, that’s great. And would I actually get a say in any of this?”</p><p>“No,” you say briskly. “Because you would not wish to have one. You would be my student and my novice: challenging me would disrupt our growing intimacy and you wouldn’t want that, would you? Admittedly you wouldn’t want to yearn after me either, yet you would be powerless to stop yourself. You’d just gather together that delicate blend of guilt and longing then wear it like a weight around your neck.”</p><p>“So that’s me. What about you?” I pause then give you a distinctly smug look. “While I’m busy doing all this yearning – what are you going do to when you realise you’ve become obsessed with me?”</p><p>“I am not obsessed. I am <em>intrigued</em> by you.”</p><p>“Yes, I know you are – obsessively.”</p><p>This makes you smile. “Am I?”</p><p>“Yes. Yes you are.”</p><p>“Well, I suppose I would resist it at first. Possibly I would even resent it.”</p><p>“Mmm. Only there’s not much you can do about it, is there?”</p><p>For a few seconds you catch my eye. “There is nothing at all. You would slice though my life like a razor blade.”</p><p>I repeat another variation of the smug look. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”</p><p>“And you are right to think so. You would pierce my mind, consume my interest, then force me to spend every moment seeking a chance to live in a world I’d given up for you where no one else was present. To know you is to love you, so the more time we spent together the more I would be forced to accept that my fate had grown inextricably linked with yours…after which I would have to work extremely hard to make you realise the same thing.”</p><p>“That’s good,” I say cheerfully. “I think I’d have enjoyed watching you put some effort in.”</p><p>“Would you really? How incredibly heartless you are.”</p><p>“Yes, well – cry harder.”</p><p>“Where has all your famous empathy gone? You should be taking pity on me for being so mindlessly captivated. I have the responsibility of an entire monastery on my shoulders, after all. Now I have to contend with losing my head over a little horror like you.”</p><p>I reach up and give you a playful tap on the cheek with my finger. “Oh dear. Looks like all that manipulation might have backfired doesn’t it?”</p><p>You smile back then catch hold of my finger so you can delicately run your teeth across the tip of it. “Not really. I might resent the situation, but I never said that I would resent <em>you</em>.  Perhaps I should but I would not be able to. Remarkable, isn’t it? You would have challenged every expectation I had about myself…yet I would still not be able to resent you for it.”</p><p>“So, in other words, your bad behaviour’s brought you more than you bargained for?”</p><p>“Yes indeed, much more. It has brought me a small, furious piece of unprincipled poetry with a beautiful face and a wonderful mind. Delicacy, grace, passion and promise…all wrapped up in a cocoon of plaid and dog hairs.”</p><p>I can’t help laughing at this and you smile down at me again then gently stroke the side of my face with your thumb. “I would have done rather well for myself, wouldn’t I?” you add. “What a magnificent reward. Whoever said that crime doesn’t pay?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” I say, then quickly take advantage of the shift in mood to make another attempt at shoving your hand down towards my groin. You allow me to get it as far as my waist before swerving sharply at the last moment to slide it beneath my shirt instead. Your palm is so warm and firm against my skin; I give a small groan then open my eyes very wide to give you a rather a pleading look.</p><p>“Okay,” I say. “I’m begging now.”</p><p>Your smile promptly broadens. “You are not, beloved; you are merely reflecting on doing so.”</p><p>“Fine. <em>Please</em>.”</p><p>You wait a few moments, acting as if you’re thinking about it, then run your finger along the bridge of my nose. “No,” you say, “I’m afraid I can’t possibly.”  I open my mouth in disbelief then watch as your previous smile slowly morphs into the most the most godawful smirk imaginable. “Didn’t we agree you needed to rest?” you add. “Further stimulation on my part would be <em>incredibly</em> irresponsible.”</p><p>“Then I should stimulate you instead,” I say hopefully, reaching down to unfasten your belt. “How’s that for a compromise? I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”</p><p>“Of that I have no doubt at all, seeing how you are very skilled and I am very susceptible. Nevertheless, my answer is still no.”</p><p>“Oh come <em>on</em>. You’re not serious?”</p><p>“I am entirely serious.”</p><p>I give a stifled groan then fling my arm across my face in a way that’s a bit more dramatic than intended. “<em>You</em>,” I say, “are an absolute sadist.”</p><p>“Me?” you reply in an overly innocent voice. “Surely not. Besides, I’ll make it up to you later – I give you my word.”</p><p>“Your word is worthless,” I say sulkily, which makes you smirk even harder without even pretending to argue about it. Not that you’ve <em>got</em> any grounds to argue; even you can’t deny that you are, without a doubt, the biggest bullshitter I’ve ever met. I lean over then give you a dig in the ribs. “Admit it,” I add. “This is revenge for what I said before.”</p><p>“Mmm…maybe a little.”</p><p>“Maybe a <em>lot</em>.”</p><p>“Y-e-s,” you say thoughtfully, “but I confess, I also enjoy it when you give me the power to withhold things from you.”  </p><p>As you’re speaking you take hold of my hand, idly tracing a circle around the ring finger where my wedding band used to be. I carried on wearing it far longer than you were happy with and even now there’s a paler stripe of skin which the sun hasn’t fully bleached out. “You’re so aloof much of the time <em>mylimasis</em>,” you add in a more serious voice. “So fiercely self-sufficient. It means there’s a certain novelty when you lower your guard and admit you need something which only I can provide for you. It doesn’t matter whether it’s large or small – protection, inspiration, or merely something as simple as physical pleasure. The imperative is the same, and I’m afraid your recent willingness to accept what I offer you is never going to lose its appeal. Remember, after all, that I had to submit to many years of you refusing to accept anything from me at all.”</p><p>I open my mouth, prepared to start huffing for a second time, and you gently press a finger across my lips to keep me quiet. “I know what you’re going to say,” you add. “You’re going to tell me that you don’t <em>need</em> anything, and that describing you in such a way makes you sound weak and dependent. And yet I have the opposite view, because the more trusting you are with me the more impressed with you I become.”</p><p>I automatically roll my eyes at this, although I can’t help smiling as I do it. The conversation has clearly shifted into something more intimate, and it just feels so surreal and ludicrous that it began from a debate over a delayed hand-job. I’m not really sure what else to do <em>but</em> smile. “So you’re a relationship counsellor now?” is all I say.</p><p>“I suppose I am, after a fashion. Your relationship with yourself is a never-ending source of captivation.”</p><p>I roll my eyes even harder then lazily stretch my hands behind my head so you can take hold of them and knot our fingers together. “Admitting I want things from you is a positive sign for my wellbeing?” I say. “Excuse me if I find that a little self-serving.”</p><p>“Oh it’s entirely self-serving – I freely admit it. But I still think the way you are learning to show you need me is a good thing. It requires the courage to be honest about your emotions instead of concealing or denying them. And the more you can do that, the more you be comfortable with who you are. How often have I told you that your vulnerability makes you strong? Strength without vulnerability stifles development. It destroys progress. If we remain within the boundary of our perceived strengths then how do we ever venture beyond them and experience new possibility? Accept and embrace your vulnerabilities Will, and you can learn from them. After that you can transcend them. And after <em>that</em> you can learn to know yourself, profoundly and truthfully – and then appreciate yourself <em>for</em> yourself, exactly the way that you are.”</p><p>As soon as you say this I realise I no longer feel like laughing. Briefly I fall quiet then finally twist my head round to look at you directly. You smile down at me then brush another stray strand of hair from my forehead. “So what about <em>you</em> then?” I say. “What about your vulnerability?”</p><p>“What do you think? I’ve been practicing too.”</p><p>“When?”</p><p>“I can tell you exactly when,” you reply in an unusually gentle way. “From the day I first laid eyes on you, of course. And not always entirely from choice.”</p><p>For a few moments I just stare at you, visibly growing more serious as my hand moves upwards to cradle your cheek. You stare back with a rather intense expression, so I reach out with my other hand to take hold of yours: entwining our fingers together as I gaze up at you gazing down at me. Your eyes are very soft and dark, almost glistening, and in that moment I’m overcome with a sense of how you’re really seeing me: stripping back the layers and artifice and truly <em>seeing</em> me for everything that I am – everything that’s flawed and fatal and damaged – as if it’s endlessly artful and fascinating. As if it’s something beautiful, in fact: your life’s endeavour and masterpiece. Your personal work of art. I swallow audibly, aware of how suspiciously damp my eyelashes are starting to feel. Oh fuck, surely there can’t be tears there? In the past I would have made more effort to hide it (<em>I have no awareness of this aqueous solution excreting from my macho eyeballs</em>) but now it bothers me far less to show my feelings in front of you. Instead I just blink a few times, briefly overwhelmed, and you lean down and press your lips against my hand.</p><p>“What is it Will?” you say quietly. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>“Nothing.” For a few seconds I close my eyes. Your breath feels so soft against my skin: tender heat and humidity as you brush your lips across my palm. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“You seem preoccupied.”</p><p>“Not really.” You kiss my hand again without responding and I take a slightly shaky breath then finally add: “I guess I just sometimes find it comforting to watch you.”</p><p>“Do you?” you ask after a pause. There’s a trace of emotion beneath the usual deadpan tone that’s not normally there, and I can’t help feeling hugely touched by the sense that this wasn’t an answer you were expecting to hear. “And why is that?”</p><p><em>Why?</em> I think silently. <em>Because you’re the only one in my entire life who understands and accepts me the way that I am. </em><em>Because you’re </em><em>lethal in construction and destructive by design; yet you’re also inventive and inspirational, and while you might not have made me a better person you’ve encouraged me to be a better version of myself. Because you’re dangerous and indecipherable, yet you’ve allowed yourself to be made vulnerable by falling in love with me; so while you might have altered everything about me, it means you’ve also trusted me to do the same to you. And because you’re full of mystery, yearning and things left unspoken; and because you elevate and enlighten me, and I never knew myself as well as I do when we’re together.</em></p><p>But in the end I just smile very faintly then run my finger along the edge of your cheekbone without trying to elaborate.  “Because,” I say quietly, “sometimes when I look at you I feel like I see myself staring right back.”</p><p>*****</p><p>That night I’m stalked by nightmares again. They’re not as defined as last time – more like a sensation than tangible events – but even in diluted form are more than enough to jerk me awake with a pounding heart and a sense of terror that’s so consuming it leaves me gasping for air. My limbs are completely leaden, a bit like my body’s been dipped in tar, and I lie there shocked and rigid until I feel you reaching out to take hold of me and tug me against your chest.</p><p>“There,” you say, wrapping both arms around my back. “A much better position.”</p><p>It’s strange how quickly this has become my new version of normality: wrenched out of sleep with the taste of fear and a sense of dread, just like I always have, only now it’s not to shadows and emptiness but instead to the sound of your voice and the sense of your hands as they soothe me back to calmness. The contact never fails to be reassuring, but while I appreciate your attempt at comfort my self-consciousness is making me irritable.</p><p>“Maybe for you,” I say grumpily. “Your hipbones are digging into me. And your ribs.” I pause for a few seconds, mournfully cataloguing further causes of discomfort. “<em>And</em> your collar bones.”</p><p>“Surely not,” you reply with mock seriousness. “Them too?”</p><p>“Them too.”</p><p>“Yes, they’re your constant adversaries aren’t they? Like ‘lying on coat-hangers’ as I recall.”</p><p>“Well now it’s like lying on spanners.”</p><p>“That’s unfortunate,” you say happily. “Although I don’t suppose you want me to lie on you instead?”</p><p>“No.” I huff a bit then readjust myself until my head is tucked beneath your chin. “You weigh an absolute ton.”</p><p>“Indeed. I, on the other hand, do not have the same complaint. It’s lucky for me that you’re so physically…insubstantial.”</p><p>“I am <em>not</em> insubstantial.”</p><p>“Flimsy?”</p><p>“Oh shut up,” I say fondly. I nuzzle the edge of your jaw with my forehead then with an effort disentangle myself so I can get out of bed, hopping about at intervals from how cold the floorboards feel on my bare feet. You watch my progress with obvious amusement then lean back against the headboard and stretch your arms above your head.</p><p>“What are you doing?” you say. “It’s still early. Come back to bed.”</p><p>“No, I’m going to head out.” The idea has only just occurred to me, but now that I’ve said it I realise how much I like the idea. “I need some exercise.”</p><p>“And where are you planning to go?”</p><p>“I don’t know…to town I guess. Do you want anything getting?”</p><p>“Not especially.” You wait a few seconds then continue, over-casually. “Would you like me to come with you?”</p><p>I pause for a few seconds then shake my head. “No, it’s okay,” I tell you. “Stay here. Get some rest.” In fact the truth is I <em>would </em>quite like you to come – mostly because anxiety over Jack is making it increasingly difficult to let you out of my sight – yet I also don’t want to smother you with concern by admitting this. It’s actually pretty frustrating: sometimes I even find myself wishing he’d just hurry up and get his ass over here because the constant waiting is almost worse. It’s like that metaphor of waiting for the shoe to drop.</p><p>I now abandon my rummaging through the bureau and turn round with a small frown. “What’s the name of that Roman parable?” I say abruptly. “The one where the courtier changes places with Dionysius for a day?”</p><p>“<em>The Sword of Damacles</em>.” I can see your reflection in the mirror; you actually look amused. “The anticipation of impending doom. I suppose I hardly need to ask what put your mind on that particular course?”</p><p>I finish tugging on my jeans then make a vague humming noise before peering around for a nearby shirt. I can’t see where I left my mine; I end up grabbing one of yours instead. Then I find myself scowling again, because despite the effort I’m putting into it I know this pretence at normalcy is nothing more than that: a pretence. It’s not even a particularly good one, because Jack – and to a lesser extent Matteo – are two separate swords hovering over my head and no matter how hard I try I can’t summon the same sort of casualness about either of them as you can. I now pause in fastening your shirt and open my mouth to ask you to come into town before changing my mind and forcing myself to close it again. Partly this is because of the smothering risks but also, paradoxically, because it feels like indoors is the safest place for you to be. It’s futile of course; I know it is. There’s no way you’d ever feel the same way about it yourself.</p><p>At the thought of anything happening to you I’m now gripped with the familiar plunge of dread and  find myself going back towards the bed again so I can gaze at you for a few seconds before planting a sentimental kiss on your forehead. Gestures like this don’t really suit you – like dumping a sickly dollop of cream on something savoury – but I still feel I should try to make them more often because it’s so obvious you enjoy it.</p><p>“I won’t be long,” I say. “I just…I need some air. I’ve got cabin fever.”</p><p>Considering I was only outside a few hours ago this doesn’t make much sense, although you still seem to accept it without further explanation. I suppose that’s not surprising; you’re much better at responding to my moods then I really give you credit for. Then I stroke your hair for a while and am about to kiss you again before realising I’ve begun handling you like you’re a kitten and get so embarrassed about it that I abruptly turn round and vanish downstairs without saying goodbye. You call something after me in Italian but before I can answer I’ve turned the corner and managed to bowl straight into Giulietta (who appears to be practicing her recently discovered genius for rolling up at the most awkward moments possible). The towels she’s carrying fly everywhere in the collision and I flush a bit then stoop over to help gather them up.  </p><p>“<em>Ah, mi dispiace</em>,” I say. “<em>È stata colpa mia</em>.”</p><p>Giulietta smiles indulgently then waves her hand to indicate that it’s fine. “My fault,” she says, despite the fact it clearly wasn’t. “You were not expecting me to be here, no? It is not my usual day.”</p><p>I suppose it’s not – especially since she was only here yesterday – although given that it doesn’t really excuse me being a clumsy asshole I can’t think of anything much to do with this.  “Your <em>signore</em> asked me to come twice a week,” she adds in explanation.</p><p>At the mention of ‘my’ <em>signore </em>I give a rather limp smile. She always refers to you like this<em>, </em>presumably in a mangled translation of ‘your man’ in an appeal to the fact I’m American. Even worse is when she refers to her own and her friends’ husbands the same way, and which is always guaranteed to make me cringe so hard I’m at serious risk of dislocating something. In fact I’m convinced it’s only a matter of time before I get invited to some sort of grisly coffee morning where I’ll be expected to sit around in a circle with the other <em>signoras</em> so we can confide about our respective Men Problems. Oh God, I bet it is…I bet it’s only a matter of time. <em>Seriously though</em>, I want to protest to her. <em>Why does everyone always assume <span class="u">I’m</span> the wife?</em></p><p>“Oh, okay,” is all I reply. “Did he say why?”</p><p>“I think he is wanting to make things more relaxing for you,” says Giulietta. “Less work, you know? He is very good.” She’s smiling like a gameshow host which makes me smile too – partly because I appreciate the gesture, but also because it’s always amusing to see your bullshitting capacities on full display (and which on this occasion have managed to get you a reputation for exemplary goodness, despite having a higher body count than Ebola).</p><p>“Your <em>signore</em>,” adds Giulietta, gesturing in the general direction of the bedroom. “He is very happy with you?” I raise my eyebrows and she smiles a bit more. “That was a nice compliment.”</p><p>“Why, what did he say?”</p><p>“<em>Luce dei miei occhi</em>. It means…what would you call it in English?” She frowns for a few seconds, clicking her fingers as she tries to remember. “Ah yes: ‘light of my eyes.’”</p><p>As soon as she says this it requires a truly monumental effort not to start blushing. Of course, with your fox-like hearing, there’s no doubt you’d heard her arrive and have shouted it on purpose to create a situation exactly like this one: in other words, to create maximum awkwardness. It’s like you’ve never been able to overcome your addiction to making me uncomfortable and, seeing how you can’t use your previous bastardly methods, have now been reduced to finding ways to embarrass me as a sort of Diet Coke version of messing with my head. Only I can’t really explain to her that being a massive dick is your idea of an affectionate gesture, so just end up smiling vaguely instead.</p><p>“Hey, can you do me a favour?” I add with a sudden flash of inspiration. “I, um, I’m just about to meet some friends and I need an Italian phrase for a small child. Something cute?”</p><p>“Oh yes. Your friends – they have a boy or a girl?”</p><p>“A boy.”</p><p>“A boy. Little?”</p><p>“<em>Tiny</em>,” I say earnestly.</p><p>“Okay. A tiny boy…hmm. Let me think. How about <em>patatino</em>?”</p><p>“What does that mean?”</p><p>“It means…” She wavers for a few seconds, clearly self-conscious about the absurdity of the translation. “In English it means ‘little potato’.”</p><p>“Perfect,” I say grimly.</p><p>Of course, knowing you, you’ll pretend to like it just to spite me. Nevertheless, the idea of <em>patatino-</em>ing you towards the brink of a nervous breakdown still has a certain appeal. I’m actually quite tempted to text you to try it out, although ultimately decide it’ll be more enjoyable to wait for a live reaction so just fire off a quick message saying I love you instead, followed by a stern reminder to be careful (you respond likewise to the first one and completely ignore the second). Then I thrust my hands in my pockets and stride off, smirking slightly at the idea of delayed vengeance (<em>light of my eyes</em>, my ass). It’s a beautiful day – crisp and bright – and I’ve got a vague plan of heading to the <em>Piazza del Duomo </em>for a couple of hours, despite the fact I’ve seen it a million times already and its charms are wearing a little thin. Even this early in the morning it’ll also be swarming with tourists, but in a way that’s part of the plan. The thought of anonymity has a genuine appeal right now, and I like the idea of going somewhere I can lose myself in a sea of unfamiliar faces.</p><p>On the way there I stop at a newsstand that’s large enough to stock <em>USA Today</em> (so I can sit and hide behind its pages), then follow it up with a chocolate <em>gelato</em> in a little cardboard tub (because it’s the type of thing that’s only possible to eat when you’re not on hand to witness it) then ferry the whole lot to the <em>Vittorio Emanuele</em> monument where I end up wedged between a gaggle of French students on one side and English ones on the other. It’s such a sweltering swirl of humanity – living bodies all tumbled together, shrieking and sun-baked with their oversized maps and selfie-sticks – and while it would normally be exhausting and irritating, today I’m finding something reassuring about it. In fact, if I tried hard enough, I feel like I might even be able to approach a state closely resembling calm. Only I never get the chance to find out for sure, because my fledging sense of peace gets shattered before it can fully begin when I hear a sound I never thought I’d hear again in this place. It’s so simple, yet also strangely foreign, despite being a mere two words. My name (<em>Mr Graham? Will Graham?)</em> spoken in the voice of a stranger.</p><p>If it happened more often I think I could have trained myself to ignore it by now. But it doesn’t happen – it’s <em>never</em> happened – and the shock of it is so jarring it’s impossible not to glance up. I don’t even want to…I don’t want to know who it is. But I still do it anyway before I can stop myself; and which is how I end up confronted with a surreal sense of your sketchbook brought to vivid life as I look into the eyes of the woman from the bar. In some ways she seems almost as surprised as I am. But while she’s no longer wearing her badge I can remember her name as she’s repeating mine and so immediately know, without being told, that I’ve found myself face-to-face with Clarice Starling.</p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hey there Fannibals, just to say that I’ve messed about with the canon timeline for this fic and Clarice is meant to be a little younger than she is in the novels xox</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In the end we go to one of the small, smoky <em>trattoria</em> that cluster the arterial roads surrounding the main square. It’s a journey made almost entirely in silence, punctuated only by an occasional pointless exclamation (<em>Nice weather! Narrow streets!</em>) when the silence is on the verge of getting too oppressive – and which, taken together, could usefully serve as some sort of case study on extreme social awkwardness. I guess her own reserve probably comes from shyness, although my own is much less about feeling introverted than it is from apprehension for a conversation I’m already certain I don’t want to have. To be honest there’s also a sense of saving energy. It’s like my words are resources that need to be hoarded in advance, which makes the occasional squandering of them on the niceness of the weather or the narrowness of the streets about as far as I’m willing to go. My feet are pounding out a rhythm on the cobblestones while I walk, and I find myself matching my monologue of self-reproach to the sound of it: <em>Why-did-I-agree-to-this? What-am-I-doing? </em>Only there don’t seem to be any sensible answers to these questions. Essentially, I’m here for no better reason than I was concerned of stoking suspicion by saying no.</p><p>We finally arrive at the <em>trattoria</em> in the same state of muteness that we travelled there in, and Clarice chooses a table then orders a Campari while I have a small bitter coffee that I don’t really want but opt for anyway because I don’t completely trust myself with alcohol. The décor is very gloomy and gothic – lots of dark wood and candlelight – and the walls are covered in portraits of numerous long-dead noblemen with elaborate names and Dante-like fates: <em>Duca di Toscana</em>, condemned and hanged as a heretic; <em>Conte Lorenzo II di Napoli, </em>deposed and exiled. I’ve been here a few times before with you, and have already begun to wilt with pre-emptive exhaustion at the thought of what you might do when you find out about today’s meeting. Because of course you <em>will</em> find out about it. I’ve accepted this as pretty much inevitable; mainly because I lost my ability to lie to you some time ago and know that I’ll eventually slip up and say something to give the game away. It’ll be something vague and obscure that most people would never, ever notice but to you will be like a blaring beacon that can be pounced on immediately then pulled into pieces. And you’ll be <em>thrilled</em> about it; I know you will. Naturally the coincidence of it will appeal to you, but your main source of delight will be the way the stakes have been raised even further. As far as you’re concerned her presence here won’t be a source of concern but an interesting challenge: yet one more puzzle piece to add to the board.</p><p>As I’m thinking this Clarice smiles at me from across the table and I wonder, rather idly, if she’s going to start apologising again for the intrusion. I get the impression she can’t quite believe her luck in stumbling over me. It’s as if I’m some rare and interesting relic from the past (which, at least from her perspective, I suppose I probably am). But in the end she doesn’t say anything else and I decide she has greater stores of poise and self-confidence than I gave her credit for. She’s seen me, she’s expressed her surprise, and now she’s going to put it to one side and move on. I can respect that, despite not liking it, because there’s no doubt I’d be infinitely happier right now if she’d never noticed me at all.</p><p>I now spend a few wistful seconds imagining myself calm and solitary on the steps again before feeling annoyed at what a waste of time this is. After all, she <em>did </em>notice me: there’s hardly any point wishing otherwise. <em>If wishes were horses then beggars would ride</em>…is that a song lyric? I’m sure I’ve heard it before. Then I give a rather absent smile before wondering all over again why the hell I agreed to this in the first place. I’ve had a lot of extra time to think about it, but I still can’t find a more satisfactory answer since I last asked: only that I’m doing it because it seemed like the easiest thing to do. I’ve always had a fatal inclination to follow the path of least resistance (even worse is that I tend to deceive myself into thinking I’m being proactive by doing it). <em>You should rebel more often</em>, you once told me. <em>Anything else is a route to complacency. Do you know why wolves evolved into domestic dogs? Because it was more convenient to forage in human settlements than it was to hunt. A short-term gain led to long-term sacrifice</em>. You’d looked immensely smug once you’d said it, but of course it was easy for you to think that when it related to something objective. On the other hand, when this trait of mine leads to something which directly benefits you you’ll always be notably silent about it. After all, I basically did the opposite of the wolves in your analogy and broke free from domesticity to join the hunters simply because it was easier to give into my need for you than to constantly deny it. I followed the path of least resistance: I followed it all the way over a cliff.</p><p>“I still can’t believe this coincidence,” says Clarice abruptly. So she <em>has</em> reverted to expressing surprise. Not that I can really blame her – my endless silence must be starting to wear her down. “At first I wasn’t sure. I’d only ever seen you in photographs.”</p><p>Bizarrely I find myself a bit non-plussed by this. I guess I’ve changed so much internally that I sometimes forget how the exterior is still the same. A bit more blemished and buffeted perhaps, but not altered beyond recognition. As if she’s read my mind she adds: “I wasn’t going to risk it at first, but then I saw…” She pauses tactfully then gestures at her own smooth cheekbone. “So I knew it must be you.”</p><p>“Mmm, yeah,” I say vaguely. “I guess it’s pretty distinctive.”</p><p>She dips her head in agreement, which is a bit of a novelty because most people usually start insisting (automatically and insincerely) that it’s not that noticeable. I take a thoughtful sip of the coffee and she hastily adds: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”</p><p>“Oh it’s fine,” I tell her. “I’m not offended.” I wonder what my expression was doing? I suppose I must have looked hurt or insulted; or at least as if I have a single shit to give about the way my face looks. Then I want to explain that I like her directness, but it somehow feels like too much effort so in the end I just smile instead in a way that’s intended to be reassuring.</p><p>“It’s…impressive,” she adds earnestly. “Like a battle scar.”</p><p>Oh Christ. I doubt she’s consciously aware of it, but this remark is a huge giveaway that the countdown has now officially started until she mentions you. It’s her use of the word <em>impressive</em>. It’s an odd choice of adjective for a scar and implies a sense of the mythology that’s been built up around me – and therefore you as well, because my impressiveness is always going to be proportional to yours, supposedly the one who brought you down. Mentally I start preparing for it, rehearsing my expression and how my voice should sound.</p><p>Another awkward stretch of silence now follows, and Clarice wisely seems to give up on me entirely and just starts talking herself in order to fill it: very concise and courteous in a way that suggests she’s skilled at communicating information for practical rather than emotional value. In fact her conversation is like a piece of music that’s been pared down to its simplest melody: all the needless embellishment stripped away in order to establish that she’s here for a seminar at Jack’s personal invitation as part of the search for <em>Il Macellaio</em>. I suppose she thinks she’s being discreet, but I can still intuit enough unspoken detail behind this bald little narrative to hear the missing bass notes and understand her intense ambition, the sprinkling of self-doubt, and an alienation from her fellow trainees that’s caused her to be so solitary on every occasion I – or indeed you – have ever seen her in. Her drink arrives while she’s talking and it looks so naïve and innocent with its little wedge of orange that I almost find myself feeling sorry for her. I know this is ridiculous but I can’t help it: there’s just a strong sense of pathos at her being so alone and so ambitious, stranded in a foreign city with her little ingenuous drink and a broodingly silent stranger about who she’s been dangerously misinformed. It makes me feel sympathetic and slightly protective…shades of Abigail. In fact the awareness of this shocks me, because I haven’t really let myself think about Abigail since you came back. I feel flinch slightly without meaning to then quickly press my hands against the table in an attempt to steady myself again.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” she says abruptly. “I always talk too much when I’m nervous.” She’s smiling as she says it and for the first time I get a powerful sense of the charm which must have caught enough of your attention to make you want to draw her. “Only I can’t quite believe it’s you.”</p><p>Briefly I find myself wondering how she’d react if I told her it’s <em>not</em> me – or at least not the version she thinks. Even so I can’t help admiring her nerve. At the same stage in my career I’d have rather been boiled in oil that accost a senior colleague in the street the way she’s done and I feel a sudden surge of responsibility to reward her courage by making the exchange worthwhile. What though? I don’t really have any idea how to be a sympathetic mentor. Even in my old life I was always shit at it. I spent most of the time struggling with a secret urge to yell: <em>Look, this job sucks. Seriously – it’s the absolute fucking worst. Just cut your losses and go and work in Walmart. </em>Besides, friendly encouragement takes work and I feel completely drained. God knows why: it’s not like I’ve even done anything. This is fairly typical and I know if you were here (which, thank fuck, you’re not) you’d be smiling fondly at the sight of it. You always say I only seem to have two speeds: full throttle or utter exhaustion.</p><p>Clarice now catches me looking at her and meets it with a friendly smile. “It’s quite the reputation you have,” she says.</p><p>Her tone is too sincere to suggest calculated flattery, but it immediately makes me wonder who’s been doing the heavy lifting to try and rehabilitate my reputation (which, by this point, ought to be rightfully fucked). Jack, most likely; no doubt motivated by a hefty dose of guilt. Even so, it’s weird to think of me being spoken about such a reverent way, because it’s hardly as if I was universally beloved even in the early days (as opposed to wearily tolerated or, more often, outright disliked). The only person I ever had anything close to friendship with was you. Although that was always something we had in common, wasn’t it? An intrinsic, yearning desire to be close to someone with a comparable mind to ourselves.</p><p>Clarice glances at me again then pauses to take a thoughtful sip of her drink. “The thing is Mr Graham,” she adds, “there was something particular I wanted to ask you.”</p><p>“Sure,” I say casually. I guess this is my cue to smile cosily and object to the formality (<em>Call me Will!</em>), only I’ve never been great at those sort of gestures either. I’ll have to do something though, because I honestly don’t think I can stand the alternative of being Mr Graham-ed for the next half hour (or however long this awkward meeting insists on lasting). Then I briefly renew my previous struggle to try and place her, despite remaining about as convinced as I can be that we’ve never spoken before today. A photograph, maybe? Perhaps some dossier from Jack about particularly promising trainees. At least the FBI connection explains my lingering sense of recognition, although realistically there was never really anywhere else it could be. It’s not like there was an extensive social circle to place her in, after all.</p><p>Clarice smiles again. I suppose my ‘<em>Sure’</em>, while terse, is the first thing I’ve said that sounds vaguely encouraging. “It’s fine if you don’t want to answer by the way,” she says. “I tried approaching Mr Crawford and it was clear he didn’t want to either.”</p><p>The term ‘Mr Crawford’ is pronounced in tones of such admiration that it actually takes me a few seconds to realise she means Jack – probably because it’s been so long since I’ve heard anyone mention him respectfully as opposed to you and your endless stream of gleeful put-downs (in fact some of these border on outright vicious; in a different life you would have made an excellent Mean Girl). Even so, the fact she’d even consider approaching Jack with a subject that’s taboo implies an unusual degree of familiarity and suggests she’s almost certainly his new protégé, very much in the way that I once was. Such raw ambition; did I ever have it myself? I suppose I must have done, although I really can’t remember.</p><p>“So, Mr Graham…”</p><p>“Call me Will.”</p><p>She smiles again and I know she’s not going to, or at least not straight away. It’s a typical trait of trainees: the sense of hierarchy gets so thoroughly beaten into them that she’ll probably have to work herself up to dropping the title. “Thanks,” she adds. “But the thing is, I’ve been working on a paper about…”</p><p><em>Here we go</em>, I think, <em>three…two…one… </em></p><p>“…the Chesapeake series, and I was just wondering…”</p><p>She pauses and when she speaks again her voice has taken on the hushed, wary tone that outsiders often have when discussing you. It’s an eerie mannerism I’ve been aware of for a while, as if you’re some sort of mythic supernatural figure and talking about you too loudly might summon you to appear. I suppose it makes sense: by now you’ve become a ghost who only exists in the abstract, your entire presence more theory than actual practice. It’s strange to think that I’m the one responsible for it.</p><p>“Do you think he’s still alive?” she adds.</p><p>“I don’t know.” My voice is deliberately slow and cautious, and I now pause for a few seconds myself, aware without even meaning to of how I’ve begun to channel that aching sense of loss I felt in the few months when you genuinely had disappeared…a long, limping stretch of nothingness where the only thing I had left of you was the sound of your voice in my head. Thank God I never lost that too: I’ve always endured our physical separations but a prolonged mental one might well have destroyed me. “It varies,” I add in the same vague way. “Sometimes I think he must be; other times I’m not so sure.”</p><p>“I think Mr Crawford assumes he’s dead.”</p><p>She hesitates then darts her eyes towards me, so I give a faint smile then say it myself so she doesn’t have to: “Because if he was still alive he would have come after me by now?”</p><p>She immediately nods in response and I have a powerful sense of satisfaction at how this was exactly what Jack was supposed to think. It’s gratifying to see that the strategy has paid off. Or at least it has in part – privately I’d be very surprised if Jack <em>really</em> thinks you’re dead. He can hardly say it to his trainees, but I doubt he’d ever believe it for sure until he was in the morgue himself to sign your death certificate. It hardly matters though, because he’ll need more than a superstitious hunch to summon enough Federal dollars to mount a proper search for you. In the meantime, this cautious pessimism will have to be enough.</p><p>“I guess it would make sense,” she continues. She sounds more guarded now, like she’s choosing her words very carefully. I suppose she’s worried about giving offence; maybe even of triggering me. “You and he had so much history.”</p><p>It's clear the ‘<em>he</em>’ in this equation doesn’t mean Jack and I’m struck all over again by the crippling sense of dissonance I feel whenever outsiders discuss you. I suppose I should be used to it by now, yet I’m not sure I ever really will be. It’s just so strange: hearing us described as this pair of epic adversaries, engaged in a permanent battle in other people’s imaginations. Admittedly it’s pointless to waste so much energy over something I can’t control, yet I’ve never fully learned to accept losing ownership of my own story while watching it get disfigured beyond recognition by an outside narrative. You and I, plummeting in fatal combat like Holmes and Moriatry at the Reichenbach, hating each other the entire time…it was never like that, but there’s no possible way to say what really happened. Like how the fall was more like falling in love – even though that’s not quite right either because I didn’t just fall, I was raised up by it. People don’t know how you were holding me, or the way we stayed like that with the water pounding below and the moonlight gleaming above, me trembling slightly and you resting your face against my hair. Or how it was, stranded in the middle of the moonlight and the streaming black blood, that I got a clear sense of how you’d <em>finally</em> got what you always wanted – a joint hunt, a shared kill, then me in your arms at the end of it all. We were so close to the edge, yet you never attempted to steer us away. You knew that I could lunge for you; knew that I had every reason to tip us into that pounding, cascading expanse of black water below. You knew all of that, of course you did – how could someone as insightful as you <em>not</em> have known? But you still didn’t try to take yourself to safety. It was as if you’d have been content to die like that. Just stood there, just like that. Stood there with me in your arms…having finally got what you always wanted.</p><p>Despite everything that’s happened since it’s probably that moment which is burnt most brightly into my memory of that night. Even now, even with all my imagination and all my empathy, I still find it hard to envisage a greater show of devotion than the way you were simply standing there, calmly prepared to face literal death if it only meant the chance to have me close to you a little longer. Silently curled against your chest in a bloody embrace, like a piece of you that had been broken off and after endless patient waiting had finally been returned to you…</p><p>With an effort I now drag myself back into the room and force myself to focus. None of this is her fault. Even so, I’m aware of how much I’ve started to resent her for managing to symbolize the way the entire world misunderstands us. This resentment isn’t fair, but then what is? When is life ever fair? Sitting here with my silent bitterness is just one of many injustices she’ll have to endure before her career is over.</p><p>“Yes,” is all I reply. “I guess you could say that.”</p><p>Clarice takes a sip of her drink then replaces it on the table and calmly returns my stare. Her eyes are very blue: arctic ice with paler tints around the centre of the iris like flecks of silver. A good word to describe them would be <em>piercing</em>. Yours are piercing too, although not in the same way. Eyes are supposed to be ‘the windows to the soul’ and anyone brave enough to gaze too long into the depths of yours would eventually find they’d either fall in love or go completely mad – possibly both at the same time.</p><p>“So what was he like?” she asks.</p><p>For a few seconds I have surreal urge to laugh out loud. Seriously though, how is it possible to even <em>try</em> to summarise it – the beauty and horror, the heights and the depths, the ruin and rapture – in a way she could understand? It’s like trying to describe the sun or a storm; she’d just have to feel it to know. In the end I simply shake my head.</p><p>“He wasn’t like anyone else,” I say.</p><p>By now I’m being almost painfully vague but she seems to take my cryptic reply at face value. I’m doing it on purpose of course. It’s the easiest way to avoid too much detail while providing a plausible defence for how wordless I’m being: the idea I’ve been so traumatised by you that a more meaningful description is impossible. I suppose I might as well feed the myth as well why I’m at it – why not? You built a legend around yourself in living time after all, so it’s hardly surprising it would double in strength and vividness in your absence. You’re occupying a strange, liminal zone now where only rumours and whispers inhabit the space where you used to be. Not that you’d care. Death doesn’t faze you, not the way it does for ordinary people. ‘<em>Without it we’d be at a loss,</em>’ you once said. ‘<em>It's the prospect of death that drives us to greatness</em>.’</p><p>Clarice continues to stare at me, the bright blue eyes strangely softened by sympathy. “I apologise,” she says. “I’m being intrusive, I know. I guess you don’t like to talk about it?”</p><p>I shrug. It’s an aloof little gesture that I realise I’ve picked up from you: a kind of careless toss of the shoulder. “It’s fine,” I reply. “I just haven’t thought about him in a while.”</p><p>Having contributed this colossal shovel of bullshit to the conversation I now lean back in my chair and take a sip of coffee. I can’t help feeling pleased at how strained I’ve made my voice sound; the clear inference being that it’s <em>not</em> fine but that I’m going to struggle on regardless like a goddamn trooper. They could just put my picture on the wall behind us with the rest of the martyrs.</p><p>“I understand. I suppose for the rest of us it’s academic; he’s a case study. Whereas for <em>you</em>…” There’s a small, tactful pause and I briefly get lost in thinking how pissed off you’d be to hear yourself described as a case study before lurching back into the conversation just in time to hear her say: “I sometimes catch myself wondering what it would be like to meet him.”</p><p>There’s another pause. Behind us the bartender has started playing Mozart across the speakers: the scratchiness of the audio makes the violins in the <em>Lacrymosa</em> sound like screams. Then I clear my throat and stare fixedly at my hands, watching almost trance-like as they slowly replace my cup on the table like it’s something incredibly fragile that’s liable to break. Finally I glance up again before replying in a voice that’s bleakly mechanical and doesn’t really sound like mine: “You don’t want to meet him.”</p><p>Clarice raises her eyebrows, quizzical and confiding. It seems to be an invite for further details and I realise that while I’ve been playing a part until now, this time the ominous tone is completely genuine. It’s true though. She really <em>doesn’t</em> want to meet you. From your perspective her combination of courage and naïvete would make her irresistible, yet she’s so sincere and so decent – so different to me – that I know within months you’d do your absolute best to crush her. After all, even I got crushed by you for a while. I was sufficiently used-up and broken-down that I almost grew comforted by the idea you’d finally kill me and put an end to it; how could she possibly endure your tendrils winding into her mind? How would she cope with the insidious way your support morphs into suffering and the suffering into support? I suppose all of us who’ve crossed you have probably asked ourselves that at some point. Whether we’ll lie back on your couch and be cured or consumed – or, as in my case, realising how close those two things are to being the same. I won’t ever regret what I did, yet I’m still aware of a weird, subconscious sense of wanting to warn her away from you. Possibly it’s a form of atonement; the warning my own former self never received until it was far too late.</p><p>“I guess it’s partly the legend that’s been built up around him,” adds Clarice into the silence. “He’s been turned into a regular bogeyman.”</p><p>I force myself to look up again, just in time to see the glance she’s thrown me from over her glass and read the clear flicker of sympathy in it. By this time it’s also painfully obvious how neither of us have referred to you by name: it’s still all <em>he</em> or <em>him</em>, the same way Jack used to do in the months after you disappeared. You’ve literally become unmentionable – and in that moment it really strikes me that I no longer know how to talk about you. Back home it was much easier to keep up the pretence of impartial disinterest. Now I’m just finding it a strain. For a few fleeting seconds I have an image of Jack, his face creased and earnest in those last few hours before the storm finally broke and everything went to hell: <em>Hannibal thinks you're his man in the room. I think you're mine</em>. It was so effortless to make him believe it…although to be fair I probably believed it myself at the time. Maybe it’s not so much that the audience has changed but that my tolerance for self-deception has so radically broken down.</p><p>“Not really,” I reply. I give her a faint smile, a convincing impression of courage under fire. “He was the person you’d send to kill the bogeyman.”</p><p>She immediately smiles back. “That sounds like a line from a movie.”</p><p>“I know,” I say. “It is.” Now I’m nodding away in agreement, even though I can’t remember which one it is. It’s still pretty convincing, though: part of my persona of this mundane, normal person who watches dumb action films then quotes them back in a bar, the same as anyone else.</p><p>“<em>Il Macellaio</em> seems almost straightforward in comparison,” adds Clarice. “I hope we’re able to help.”</p><p>I promptly sit up a bit straighter, relieved at the change of subject. I imagine my obvious discomfort has led her to do it on purpose and I’m struck all over again by the dissonance of play-acting distress while still privately feeling it. “Are you involved in the profiling?” I ask.</p><p>“No, not really. At least – not officially. Mr Crawford will take a lead on that when he arrives.”</p><p>“Yes, I heard he was coming,” I say, ultra-casual. “I assumed he’d be here by now.”</p><p>“He’s arriving tomorrow. You must be looking forward to catching up?”</p><p>Having been expecting something like this I’ve already got my response prepared – mostly a heavy sprinkling of truth to season the lie more convincingly. “To be honest I haven’t reached out to him yet,” I reply in the same casual way. “The whole reason I’m here is to cut ties with back home.”</p><p>“I understand. I’m sorry I’ve foisted it on you.”</p><p>I shift a bit in my chair again then tell her it’s fine – which means the whole conversation has now gone full circle, with her apologising and me sitting there looking brave-but-hard-done-by while insisting I’m happy about it. In fact I’m feeling so martyred by now I’m surprised the waiter hasn’t turned up to put a little stack of kindling on my feet and a stake on the back of the chair before adding my picture to the wall (Sir Will of Graham: expired from excessive self-indulgent wallowing). To be honest I’m even starting to piss myself off; I can only imagine what she must be thinking. No doubt she’ll tell the other trainees about it afterwards. <em>Yeah, I met Will Graham</em>, she’ll say. <em>Oh my God, what a self-pitying old shit</em>.</p><p>“You should ask Jack to let you be more involved,” I tell her. I’m trying to sound less mournful, although to be honest that ship has well and truly sailed by now (before slowly sinking to the bottom of the harbour). “It’s ridiculous to drag you out here then expect you to take on a glorified admin role. You need field experience. Trust me – he’ll appreciate you showing the initiative.”</p><p>“Okay, I’ll do that,” she says, which makes me wonder if she will. Probably yes: in fact almost certainly yes. It’s easy to mistake her diffidence for shyness at first glance, but in reality I think it’s just a disguise for humility. Underneath it she’ll be the equivalent of a steel hand in a velvet glove. “Thanks for the tip,” she adds. “Will.”</p><p>She says it in a rather cautious way, which I immediately have some sympathy for. She’s at a stage in her career where exchanging Christian names with senior colleagues is a bit of a trophy; something sincere and ardent that confers a special understanding. It soon wears off (very quickly in my case, with only a few months transition between ‘Agent Crawford’ to ‘Jack’ to ‘Oh Christ, what does that bad-tempered bastard want now?’). Although admittedly it was a bit different with you, because I can still remember how hard it was hard to overcome the urge to use more formal terms when discussing you with other people. Your first name generally came far less naturally than it should, whereas ‘Dr Lecter’ virtually tripped off the tongue. It was actually rather weird. Although I know exactly why I did it – an attempt to distance myself and appear more emotionally detached from you than I really was – so maybe it’s not that weird after all. It’s probably why you seem to like it so much when you hear me say it now; as if I’m making up for all the years I denied you the intimacy you were hoping for.</p><p>I now have a few seconds of annoyance towards my former self for being so cringey and embarrassing before promptly swerving back to the subject of <em>Il Macellaio</em> as a convenient way not to think about it anymore. “This one’s not especially complicated,” I tell her. “He’s sophisticated, but he still fits a clear pattern. For starters there’s never much evidence at the scenes…”</p><p>Without fully meaning to I realise I’ve slipped back into teacher mode, deliberately leaving an inviting pause to see if the trainee can insert the answer. It’s quite a jolt to discover it – like activating a muscle memory I never knew I still had – because it’s not like I even enjoyed it that much at the time. Teaching was always less of a vocation that it was a vehicle to do what I was good at without spiralling into total madness (or at least it <em>was</em> until you came sauntering in to fuck everything up). I suppose it’s more that she’s arousing a sense of responsibility in me that the talented ones always seemed to be able to. It’s all I have to offer anymore, because while I can’t solve the case on her behalf, I <em>can</em> help her learn how to pull apart the perspective of a killer.</p><p>As predicted she immediately takes the bait, leaning across the table with the air of someone warming to their theme. “Which shows the killings are premeditated and carefully planned,” she says. “There are essentially three separate crime scenes: where the victim was approached, where they were killed, and where the body was disposed of.”</p><p>“Right.” I can see my reflection in the tiles opposite; the way I’m nodding and gesturing with both hands. “The victims seem to be targeted strangers, but there’s no signs they were taken by force.”</p><p>“So he’s socially competent?”</p><p>“Exactly: or at least he’s good at pretending to be. On the face of it I’d say he’ll be of average or above-average intelligence, employed, educated – and extremely cunning and controlled.”</p><p>“Yes, he’s going to some effort to cover his tracks isn’t he?”</p><p>My reflection is already nodding again before she’s finished speaking. This enthusiasm is unexpected, and I suspect is coming from a lingering sense of guilt at not getting involved more directly. There’s no question my urge to protect you is stronger than the urge to roll up my sleeves and collaborate with Jack, but at least this is some small way of trying to redress the balance.</p><p>“Agreed,” I say. “I think he’s familiar with police methods and is almost certainly following the investigation. You should be prepared for him to start altering the scenes to try and throw you off course.”</p><p>Clarice now nods herself (a rather more restrained version of my reflection in the tiles, which by this time is starting to resemble one of those bobble heads that people put on their dashboards). “It’s a shame you’re not involved yourself,” she adds. “It would be so useful to have your input.”</p><p>“I’m retired,” I say firmly.</p><p>This makes her smile. “Sorry,” she says when she sees me looking at her. “It's just strange to think of you that way. You’re so young.”</p><p>Instead of replying I just make a vague humming noise, because next to her I feel <em>ancient</em>. Admittedly there’s probably not that many years between us – in fact going by the average trainee age she can’t be much more than mid-twenties – but her energy and integrity are making me feel old. Not that it matters that much, because the discomfort of this is miniscule compared to the unsettling way she’s managed to stir up several strains of memory that I wasn’t remotely prepared for. It strikes me that she must be very skilled at interviewing suspects. She has a candour and frankness that’s disarming, combined with a razor-sharp acuity that could easily target a weak spot and lull someone into revealing hidden facts before they’re even aware of it. In my case the adage of ‘don’t bullshit a bullshitter’ has fortunately come into play, but I can imagine that given enough time most people would begin unravelling like a spool of dropped thread.</p><p>Abruptly I now push back my chair. It makes an ugly scraping noise across the floorboards, a suitable accompaniment for the shrieking violins. “Look I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s nearly half past. I have to get going.”</p><p>“Oh of course, I appreciate you taking the time. And thank you for the drink.” She stands up too then offers me her hand, young and poised and unafraid. “I know this is going to sound corny, but…it was a real honour to meet you.”</p><p>“No problem,” I reply, although whether for the drink or the honour isn’t clear. Then I walk away without looking back, overwhelmed the entire time with a strong sense of foreboding that this strange, stilted meeting won’t be the last I see of her. I suppose on one level this makes sense – as long as you insist on staying here then I can’t avoid Jack indefinitely, and there’s a good chance that when I finally meet him she won’t be far behind. But while it might have been your interest in her that initially got under my skin, your obvious fascination now seems such a trivial concern compared to her obvious fascination with <em>you</em>. It’s enough to make me miss the time I had nothing worse to worry about than a sketch of a stranger, because after today it feels like the net is tightening even further and we’re soon going to have to deal with the presence of yet another person whose yearning ambition is devoted to hunting you down.</p>
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<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This update is dedicated to Vapidus, because my writing officially went south this week until their gorgeous art for the fic came along and got my Hannigram Mojo up and running again on time to finish the chapter :-D Please go to Instagram if you have a moment and <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/CNc-x72hbMu/?igshid=1oftdy2knozxt">check it out</a>, because it is *amazing* (and not explicit, although probably NSFW).</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was only supposed to be a short trip into town. Instead I’ve been AWOL for hours and before I’ve even opened the door I can already guess how pissed off you’re going to be. Sure enough when I check my phone there are three missed calls, blinking off and on like little electronic signals of reproach, and my heart immediately starts to sink at the sight of them. I don’t have the energy for a scene; I really don’t. With a regular person it would be bad enough, but your scenes are always carefully curated masterworks of artful antipathy: sizzling and smoking with silent resentment in which you’re able to indicate enormous offence being taken without having to speak a single word to confirm it. The whole thing is exhausting – and more than a little unnerving – because despite how the atmosphere chokes with foreboding it’s always impossible to tell what you’re really thinking. If you just yelled and called me an inconsiderate asshole it would probably be easier, but instead you’ll simmer away and let me second-guess the situation until my nerves are completely frayed. It’s like you could be genuinely angrily or secretly amused and I’ll almost never know for sure.</p><p>I now unlock the door and cautiously glance around the hallway before dumping my keys on the table. I’m expecting an immediate confrontation but there’s no sign of you anywhere, and I’m just starting to wonder if you’ve gone AWOL yourself in revenge when I go into the kitchen and catch a faint waft of your aftershave. It’s very distinctive – a bit like a calling card – and I’m just about to call your name when your voice promptly shoots out behind me and snaps: “Where have you been?”</p><p>I swing round sharply on both heels but I still can’t see where you are. It’s outright creepy; I know you’re doing it on purpose. It’s also frustrating, because while the kitchen is large it’s not <em>that</em> large – not enough for you to get fully lost in. I squint around for a few seconds then finally locate you in the corner, slightly camouflaged by the stretch of shadows which always fall across the house in the afternoon.</p><p>“<em>Out</em>,” I say. The annoyance is obvious; I was intending to be more apologetic, but the tension of the last few hours is making me irritable. “Exactly where I said I would be.”</p><p>“You didn’t answer your phone.”</p><p>“I guess I didn’t.” I suppose this would be a good time to employ some of these de-escalation skills I had to practice on one of Jack’s endless crappy courses but I honestly can’t be bothered. It’s ironic really. I spent so long having to learn about ‘reflective silence’ and ‘non-threatening non-verbals’, yet almost never seem to use them when they’re most needed. I lean against the counter instead then fold both arms, deliberately defiant and combative. “Weird isn’t it?” I add. “Anyone would think I was a full-grown adult.”</p><p>You stare at me without replying, and I’m starting to think you’re about to back down when you peel yourself away from the wall and come striding towards me in a few quick steps so you can cup my face in your hand. I hate it when you do this. Past association always make it feel like a power move (the fact you’ve chosen a kitchen to do it in doesn’t exactly help) and I let out my breath in an angry hiss then jerk my face away. If I’m honest it’s actually kind of depressing, because moments like this are such a strong reminder that I still haven’t overcome my instinctive urge to fight you off whenever you try to grab me. Your eyes narrow with annoyance and you wait a few moments before calmly reaching out to do it again – this time with both hands so it’s harder for me to get free.</p><p>“Stop it!” I say sharply. “Get off me.”</p><p>I’m not really expecting you to listen and of course you don’t. Instead you just tighten your grip then making a sort of humming noise through your teeth. It’s possible this is meant to be soothing but by this point it’s honestly impossible to tell. “I don’t like not knowing where you are,” you say.</p><p>“I told you where I was.”</p><p>“You were gone a very long time.”</p><p>“I was gone a few hours. Can’t you just…” I’m going to tell you to relax, but somehow it doesn’t feel right because you’re always supernaturally relaxed: at least on the surface. I proceed to audition and reject a series of increasingly inappropriate alternatives (<em>calm down, chill out</em>) before finally settling on: “Just give me a bit of space.”</p><p>You carry on staring at me while I’m speaking, eyes laser-focused with the familiar intensity. “That is not a reasonable request,” you finally reply. “Possessiveness is a consequence of love, just as anger is a consequence of care. If I cared less I would neglect you more.”</p><p>“Oh for God’s sake,” I say. Mentally I’m already starting to draft a speech about how fucked-up and dysfunctional this is, but before I can manage it I feel your grip on me tighten again. The touch is light enough not to hurt, but firm enough to indicate displeasure, and as I see the sharp way you’re inhaling I suddenly know <em>exactly</em> what’s about to happen.</p><p>“Someone’s been close to you,” you say. Your voice has audibly changed; no longer rhythmic, but taut and brittle with resentment. “Who was it.”</p><p>“No one.”</p><p>“No one who wears <em>L’Air du Temps</em>?”</p><p>I could actually kick myself for not pre-empting this sooner, although short of sitting in the fountain to wash the smell off it’s hard to know what else I could have done. I suppose this is my cue to tell you what’s happened, but in that moment I know I’m not going to. Possibly this is a mistake…in fact it almost certainly is, seeing how likely it is you’ll find out anyway. Even so, delaying the problem a bit longer has a powerful appeal, because once you discover I’ve met the subject of your sketch in this context then I know you won’t be able to rest until you’ve had a chance to see her yourself.  </p><p>“<em>No one</em>,” I repeat stubbornly. “At least no one important – just some trainee.”</p><p>You wait a few more seconds, slowly stroking my cheekbones with your thumbs in a way that’s unmistakably possessive. “What trainee?”</p><p>“Okay, <em>enough</em>,” I say. I reach up to roughly knock your hands away then take a few steps backwards until I’m out of touching distance. “I don’t know who she was, I’d never met her before. She recognised me from a photo.” Remembering our conversation I give an involuntary twitch of dread. “Even more to the point, she knows who <em>you</em> are. We’re unbelievably lucky she’s never spotted you in person.”</p><p>For a few seconds you just stare at me, slow-blinking like a cat. “She wanted you to spend time with her?”</p><p>I have a sudden, ludicrous urge to bellow ‘<em>Well obviously she did – duh</em>’ just for the satisfaction of seeing the look on your face (not to mention the total lack of comprehension: <em>I beg your pardon Will? ‘Duh’?</em>). “She’s here as part of the <em>Il Macellaio</em> task force,” I say instead with obvious impatience. “And speaking of which, here's some more news for you. She told me that Jack is on his way. Like, <em>right</em> on his way: he’s arriving tomorrow.”</p><p>This is the bombshell news I’ve been waiting to drop – and which instead of provoking any sort of reaction from you just bounces straight off again with no obvious effect. Sometimes I wonder why I even bother. “So late?” is all you reply. “I thought he would have been here by now. Good old Jack – always reliably behind the curve.”</p><p>While I know it’s not deliberate, the mocking way you dismiss Jack’s competence manages to strike a serious nerve. Most likely Clarice’s references to my ‘reputation’ set it off too, but either way it’s stroked up the memory of how much trouble you went to over the years to shatter my self-confidence and make me lose faith in my ability to do my job. Hell, by the time you’d finished the sabotage was so extreme that <em>everyone’s</em> confidence in me had been pretty much destroyed. For a few moments the urge to yell at you is almost overwhelming, and I finally have to re-direct it into an angry shuffling motion with my feet before throwing a gargoyle-like glare in your direction then spinning round and stalking away to the other side of the kitchen. It’s strange to think I’d have once been much too wary to take my eye off you while you were angry; now it doesn’t even occur to me to feel concerned about what you might do when my back’s turned. Besides, while it’s mostly to get a bit of distance it’s also to forage for food because I’ve suddenly realised how hungry I am. Ravenous, in fact. I begin to rifle through the cupboard like an eager rodent, only pausing to turn round and add over my shoulder: “From tomorrow onwards I want you to stay inside.”</p><p>As soon as I’ve said this your eyes start to narrow again. You’re annoyed, I can tell – you never like being told what to do. Ironically you seem content to go along with my demands most of the time, but every so often you’ll call my bluff and outright refuse to acknowledge a single thing I ask you. I suspect you do it on purpose to disorientate me, because God forbid you’re ever anything so normal as being easy to predict.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?” you reply. I stare back at you then blink a few times: the last time I heard anyone say this out loud was in an English TV drama where the whole cast was wearing bonnets and electricity hadn’t been invented. God knows how you’re able to use such outdated phrases and still sound menacing…it’s like some kind of superpower that you have. In the end I simply repeat the scowling expression, just in time for you to add: “That is not what we agreed.”</p><p>“I know we didn’t,” I snap. “Isn’t it frustrating to be controlled? But ‘if I cared less I would neglect you more.’”</p><p>Needless to say you make no attempt to acknowledge this obvious double standard. You’re so annoying sometimes: most people would have the decency to at least <em>pretend</em> to be ashamed at having their own bullshit thrown straight back at them. Instead you just narrow your eyes again into little slits of disapproval and say: “As you know, I have a <em>considerable</em> aversion to hiding from Jack Crawford.”</p><p>“Yes, I know you do. In case you’d forgotten, you also have a top-spot on the FBI billboard.”</p><p>“And so you wish to have me under house arrest?”</p><p>“You’re right.” I abandon the cupboard then open the fridge instead, rummaging around for a few seconds before crossly slamming it shut. “House arrest would suck – almost as bad as being in <em>actual</em> prison. What a relief you’re not in a position where you’d have to choose between the two.” You make an irritated sighing sound and I finally glance up for long enough to throw another scowl at you. “Speaking of which,” I add, “I still remember sitting round the office while we all said what bullshit it was that you’d gotten away with an insanity plea. For the record, I am now revising my judgement of your soundness of mind, because the risk you’re proposing is <em>deranged</em>.”</p><p>This time you don’t reply at all. Possibly you’re struggling not to lose your temper; you always hate it when I’m sarcastic with you. You think it’s disrespectful (a younger cousin of rudeness) but by this point I’ve run out of shits to give and am completely past caring whether you’re offended or not. Besides, I know you <em>won’t</em> lose your temper. Mostly because you almost never do, but also because you’re aware that I’m goading you on purpose to get a reaction and so will deliberately stay in control to deny me the satisfaction of getting one. Sure enough when I turn round again you’re stood exactly where you were before, your features arranged into your favourite Mona Lisa expression of complacent calmness. I always find this incredibly aggravating. Sometimes I even fantasise about trying slap it off (and probably would, except for the fact that I know I’d just find another, slightly smaller smug look straight beneath the first one).</p><p>“We’ve discussed this already,” you now say with the same provoking calmness. “We’ve discussed it at <em>length</em>. Consequently, the discussion is closed. You can’t revert to your position of a week ago with no explanation and reasonably except me to agree.”</p><p>I perform same the angry foot shuffle as before (by which point I realise it’s virtually developed into a kind of tap routine, so decide I’d better stop). “I’ve already explained it,” I say. “He’s coming <em>tomorrow</em>.”</p><p>“We always knew he was coming: the situation remains unchanged. I understand the contact with the trainee has unsettled you, but it makes no difference to the presence or absence of Jack.”</p><p>Seeing how I can hardly explain that I was expecting him to take a bit longer – and therefore give me enough time to talk you out of your insane scheme to go after him – I find that I don’t really have a good answer to this. You raise a questioning eyebrow and I frown a few times to myself before giving up entirely and opening the packet of chips I’ve found instead. You always look slightly agonised watching me eat junk food so I loudly crunch through three in a row in a sort of petty, passive-aggressive asshole gesture.</p><p>“It is as I said before,” you eventually add. “We must adapt to the circumstances we find ourselves in even if they’re not the ones we might wish for. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. In a time of famine the devil feasts on flies.”</p><p>“Okay, thanks for that,” I say gloomily.  “Thanks for that completely repulsive analogy.”</p><p>This makes you smile. “Speaking of repulsive…” you add, nodding towards the packet of chips. “You appear to be hungry.”</p><p>“I am. I’m starving.”</p><p>“Indeed.” You glance at the chips again; you actually look like you’re trying not to shudder. “Let me make you some lunch.”</p><p>Your tone sounds unusually placatory and it occurs me that this is your way of trying to keep the peace. I suppose you’ve realised how much Jack’s arrival is freaking me out (not that this does you much credit – you’d have to be blind and deaf <em>not</em> to realise). More to the point, it’s clear that you also understand how much your recklessness for any kind of consequence is walking a fine line of pushing me too far. Although surely you must still know that I’d never give up on you? I’m not sure really, it’s hard to say: I spend so much time second-guessing you I sometimes forget that you might occasionally do the same. Only I don’t know how to explain any of this, so in the end just mutter something appreciative then sit down at the table instead and try to look less bad-tempered as you start assembling plates and pans. You end up making me gnocchi, which I’ve recently discovered I’ve got a bit of an addiction for. I’ve had it before in restaurants, but yours is always better. If I were cooking it myself I’d just dump a jar of sauce over it (scarlet, gloopy and volcanically hot from a stint in the microwave) but you boil it for a few minutes in salted water then fry it in gleaming garlic butter until it’s light and crispy.</p><p>“Not <em>fry</em>,” you always say. “Sauté.” To which I’ll reply “Whatever,” before demolishing the entire lot like someone half-starved. It’s far nicer when it’s been fried (sautéed). This time is no exception and you pull up a chair to watch me eating while I do my best to ignore you. This isn’t especially hard because I’m so used to it by now. You’ve always enjoyed feeding me and it’s yet another item to add to the list of things I ought to find creepy but can no longer bring myself to care about.</p><p>I devour the gnocchi in record time then give a contended sigh and push the plate away. “That was great,” I say. “Thanks.”</p><p>“You’re welcome.” You reach across the table to press the back of my hand, which is about as close as you ever get to actually apologising. “It’s still early. Why don’t we go out for a while?”</p><p>“Are you kidding me? I’ve just told you there’s a trainee in town who knows exactly who you are.”</p><p>“A trainee who you clearly met while on a lunchbreak. And take my word for it: trainees who get flown all the way to Italy at taxpayer expense are an industrious breed. I should say there is no chance of her leaving her office until 18.00 at the earliest.” You give one of your more feline smiles then extend a forefinger to brush along the edge of my wrist. “Facts of which you are already well aware. You are letting your concern affect your judgement.”</p><p>While this is undeniably true, I still can’t quite shake my reservations about it. “Well…perhaps,” I say cautiously. “But we should go somewhere touristy. Somewhere there’s no chance she’ll be.”</p><p>“Agreed.”</p><p>“And you should wear a hat.”</p><p>This makes you smile slightly. “If you like.”</p><p>Left to your own devices I know you won’t, so go to retrieve one myself (followed by an old pair of my glasses with the lens knocked lens out) then stand over you with my arms folded while you put them on. You suit both surprisingly well: the hat is a pale grey panama which gives you a suitably elegant European air, while the glasses accentuate your cheekbones and compliment the curve of your forehead. In fact, they look better on you than me, which is hard not to feel faintly irritated by. They’re not even necessary considering sunglasses would have done the job just as well, but I suppose you’ll at least have a back-up option if we end up indoors at any point.</p><p>“Okay then,” I say when you’ve finished. “Where do you want to go?”</p><p>“Wherever you like.” You give me a rather wry smile. “After all, today is the final day with no restrictions.”</p><p>Although it hasn’t escaped me that you never agreed to stay out of sight while Jack’s here, this last statement feels like you’re at least acknowledging my concerns about it. I suppose this is progress…sort of. Admitting the restrictions exist doesn’t mean you’ll actually follow them (who am I kidding? Of course you won’t) but for the moment we at least seem to be approaching something resembling being on the same page. Or the same book, maybe? The same library? Even so, we’ve been arguing so much lately I’m glad to accept a ceasefire and finally suggest spending the afternoon at <em>Lago di Bilancino. </em>We’ve gone there quite often in the past few weeks, but while I always pretend it’s because I like the lake the real reason is that I’ve developed a secret mania for the cygnets. I mean I really have…it’s actually pretty embarrassing. I’m certain you saw through the obvious lie about the lake some time ago, but so far have been surprisingly willing to humour me (despite it being safe to say that you don’t share my captivation yourself and probably just look at the cygnets and see an ingredient for <em>Salade Landaise</em>). No doubt you think my own fascination has its roots in something profound and philosophical about transformation, but it really hasn’t: I just want something cute and goddamn fluffy in my life every now and then. The cygnets are bumbling about by the waterside, gutsy and hilarious with their beady little eyes, and I sit on the bench and watch them while you settle down next to me and retrieve a discarded copy of <em>La Repubblica</em>, your other arm resting casually along the back of the bench so you can stroke my neck. You immediately flick straight to the article on the FBI and I avert my eyes again and struggle not to sigh out loud. Even so, I appreciate the way you’ve concealed yourself behind the newspaper: no one walking by would be able to see you, and I know you’re doing it for my sake rather than your own.</p><p>Just as I’m thinking this one of the cygnets waddles straight past my foot and I feel myself smile for what feels like the first time in days. “Did you know that swans can break a person’s arm?” I say. At least I assume they can…possibly it’s one of those urban myths, the same as the one about lemmings running over cliffs. I still hope it’s true though. The swans seem so fragile and beautiful with their delicate necks so it’s reassuring to think they might be capable of such rugged self-defence. In that respect it would probably be quite enjoyable being a swan. An extremely easy, straightforward kind of life: gliding around, looking serene, eating bread…breaking people’s arms.</p><p>Beside me I can see you starting to smile. Most people would get annoyed listening to me blurt out random bits of mental crap, but I know you find it endearing.  “They are very impressive creatures,” you say. “They are also very devoted.” You pause then gently increase the pressure on my neck. “After finding a suitable mate then two swans will pair for life.”</p><p>This makes me groan a bit and roll my eyes, although I’m smiling while I do it. You smile back then disappear behind your newspaper again, allowing your fingers to wander upwards to lightly stroke the hair at the base of my neck. It feels very intimate, although it’s about as far as you’ll go without explicit invitation because you know I don’t like you touching me in public. I often feel faintly ashamed of this reluctance, but I’ve never been a demonstrative person and there’s something about public displays of affection which are guaranteed to make me cringe. It’s stupid really: most couples don’t have a problem with it and it’s not like I really care what any onlookers might think. Why <em>does</em> it bother me so much? Perhaps it’s a sign of some deep-seated hang-up. Or maybe I’m sexually repressed? Oh God…I bet I am. I bet I’m sexually repressed.</p><p>“Hey,” I say abruptly. “Do you think I’m sexually repressed?”</p><p>There’s a pause before your eyes re-appear from the top of your newspaper to stare at me. “<em>You</em>?” you say.</p><p>I suppose this should be reassuring but somehow it manages to seem even worse. It’s your surprised tone, I think. It’s like you might as well be saying: <em>My dear Will, you know as well as I do that you are the most enormous ho</em>.</p><p>The rest of your face now appears and from the faint smile on your face it’s obvious you’ve worked out what I’m thinking. “You are not remotely sexually repressed,” you add. “Although perhaps a little emotionally inhibited at times.”</p><p>“Right,” I say gloomily. “That’s not that much better though is it?”</p><p>“It is not a question of better or worse.” Your smile has started to broaden slightly; it occurs to me you might be struggling not to laugh. “Why this sudden introspection? Is it because we’re together in public?”</p><p>“I guess.”</p><p>“You guess, do you? I suspect you <em>know</em> – although I won’t force you to describe it if you don’t want to.”</p><p>“You couldn’t force me, genius. Not if I didn’t want to.”</p><p>By now your eyes look like they’re gleaming and I have an awful feeling you might be about to pounce on me then stick your tongue down my throat in front of all the assembled mothers and toddlers just to prove a point. In fact I’m so convinced I start having pre-emptive images of all the scandalised glares and ‘<em>Mamma mias</em>!’ but in the end you just smirk again then trail your finger across my forearm before vanishing behind the newspaper again. Perversely a part of me now wishes you would reappear so I could talk to you, but there’s no doubt it’s more secure to have you hidden from view. Perhaps I could just knock on the front of the paper to get your attention as if it was a door? Either that or blurt out a few more random observations about swans and sexual repression.</p><p>A few more minutes go past, but it’s clear you’re not coming out again so I lean back against the bench then close my eyes as I start to daydream about what it would be like to have the sort of life where we don’t have to keep looking over our shoulders. This is soothing, and after a bit of thought I decide I’m going to put us in a house in the countryside (despite the fact this was discussed then discarded in real life; partly because of the difficulties in getting the right property tax, but mostly because you’re too sophisticated to be away from structured society for more than a few weeks at a time). Oh well, fuck it – it’s my fantasy, I can do whatever I want. The house in my mind is very sprawling and rustic-looking, possibly a discarded farmhouse, and is built from stone the same pale gold as Labrador puppies with grey slates on the roof and lots of dark wooden window frames. Two storeys would probably be enough, although I decide to add a basement for you to use as a wine cellar, followed by a large dusty attic that I could surprise you with by renovating into a library with rows of bookshelves that I’d built myself. After that I include a kitchen with a <em>La Cornue</em> range and a rack filled with gleaming copper pans, then plant an herb garden for you outside the backdoor before turning my attention to the front of house. I put in some trees – large, twining cherries that would shower confetti in the spring and drip with fruit in the Fall – then then add a few tubs of lavender and Ficus, followed by a porch swing that we could sit and bicker in every evening while I watched the sunset and occasionally fell asleep on with my head across your knee. As a finishing touch I add a few dogs to the image to make it perfect, then contentedly stretch out again and let my foot rest against yours.</p><p>You promptly return the pressure, and I can’t help smiling at the contrast they make when side-by-side: yours immaculately clad in Italian leather and mine lolling about in an ancient pair of ankle boots that any self-respecting tramp would probably discard for looking too sorry for themselves. <em>Opposites attract</em>, I think – even though the analogy doesn’t extend much further than our footwear, because we’re really not that different at all. In the early days I used to wonder how it would ever be possible to combine such discordant tastes and temperaments in a shared home, yet somehow we still seem to have managed it. In fact I rarely even think about it anymore, content in the knowledge that there’s a side of you which can learn to tolerate mud and dog hairs right next to a side of me who’ll drink vintage wine while listening to classical music, both of who can peacefully coexist and even learn to enjoy it.</p><p>“<em>Ti amo</em> Hannibal,” I say quietly.</p><p>The sun is making me drowsy and as you increase the stroking on my neck I let out a small, contented noise. You dip your thumb beneath my collar in response, gently rubbing the skin as your fingers curl around my neck to brush the edge of my jaw. It’s such a small gesture yet somehow feels far more intimate than if you actually had kissed me. <em>We should go home right now</em>, I think. <em>We should go home and go straight to bed</em>. To be honest it’s probably a bit too hot for it, but by this point I don’t really care. I want to feel your weight pressed on top of me, my skin growing warm and damp as our tongues slide together, then gazing into each other’s eyes the entire time as your hands explore every part of my body.</p><p>Abruptly I pull myself upright, snapping my eyes open as I swivel round to look at you. My mouth is moving, already on the verge of suggesting it, but before the words can form I find myself going deadly silent as each one of my muscles seems to contract itself with shock. The sensation is enough to make me flinch almost violently, but as you turn to stare at me my eyes slide straight past you: fixated in horror at the pathway that winds across the parkland just beyond your shoulder.</p><p>“Oh God,” I say faintly, and my voice seems very far away. “Oh <em>shit</em>.”</p><p>For a few seconds it’s like everything’s in slow motion – dulled sound, muted shadows – before I come jolting back to life and it all roars into focus again with a blare of noise and colour. The only saving grace is that we’re too far away to be seen, but I know that grace is a fleeting one because it can’t be that much longer: not more than a few minutes. Then I’m aware of a chaotic kaleidoscope of emotion – fear, confusion, anger, resentment – because I’m not even sure how it’s happened. I mean how <em>has</em> it happened? How it is even possible? But regardless of the <em>hows</em> and the <em>whys</em>, there’s no doubt it finally has and he’s finally here: a full 24 hours sooner than he should have been, but no less real because of it. Jack Crawford. Walking straight in our direction.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Oh God</em>, I think, <em>oh my God</em>. Then I think it again, and then again, until it’s turned into a litany of silent appeals (<em>oh-God-oh-God-oh-God</em>), despite the fact I don’t believe in God and, even if I did, it would still be pointless because you and I are the last people He’d ever choose to help. There’s also a certain irony in my plea for a solution because if any situation needed urgent action it’s this one, yet right now I’d give anything to simply do…nothing. I don’t want to <em>do</em>. Doing is stressful and hard. It requires effort. How much easier it would be to ignore responsibility and just give up and check out: let the chips fall where they may. Only I don’t have the luxury any of these things, because inaction from me means the only alternative is to let <em>you</em> take control instead. And because I don’t want to even imagine the depths of disaster that could lead to, I take a deep breath instead and then begin a series of rapid mental calculations as I prepare to do what needs to be done. Jack is walking slower than usual; possibly the heat is getting to him. He has a stride of around 2.5 feet, give or take, and must be a quarter of a mile away from us. That means about 500 steps before he passes the bench…just under 3 minutes. It should be enough time. Shouldn’t it? It <em>has</em> to be enough.</p><p>As I turn back to face you you’re still in the process of lowering your newspaper, which means only seconds have passed since I last spoke to you. It’s a shock to realise this; it feels like it should be hours. One thing, however, which <em>isn’t </em>a shock is how incredibly calm you seem. Your expression is one of fascination – enjoyment, almost – as if you’re actively savouring the moment that this calamity starts to unfold. Probably you are. In fact you almost certainly are: you must have been fantasising about a moment like this one ever since you heard he was coming to Italy. And it makes me want to scream in frustration, because the reality is that Jack’s arrival isn’t fun or intriguing, or whatever skewed perspective it is you have, but a chaotic collision of different lives that feels almost existential in how threatening it is. An obvious sighting of you would be catastrophic – a trigger to reignite the hunt with an intensity dwarfing everything that’s happened in the past – and in that moment it feels like the only thing which matters anymore is to get you away from him as fast as humanly possible.</p><p>It’s then that I hear someone speaking and am almost surprised to realise that it’s me. “<em>Go</em>,” I’m telling you. “Get out of here <em>now</em>. I’ll distract him for as long as I can.”</p><p>My voice is low and urgent; I expected myself to sound panicked, but I don’t. It’s more like grim determination, a sort of life-or-death fatalism at the possibility of losing you. Not that it makes any difference though, because I can already tell you don’t want to. I don’t even need to hear you speak to know it. I can see it from the set of your mouth, the gleam in your eyes, and the general stubborn stoniness of your expression. It’s obvious you won’t want to leave me alone with him, but I suspect an even stronger reason is that you see a retreat as undignified. As far as you’re concerned it’s him who should be running away from <em>you</em>. Oh God, why are our goals so often at odd with one another? You want a dramatic confrontation where you can relish Jack’s distress and disbelief, whereas all I want is to see you safe and gone. But it’s impossible to explain any of this in the seconds I have, so in the end I just abandon logic completely and go straight to emotion instead. It doesn’t feel great to manipulate you in such an obvious way, but desperate times call for desperate measures and if ever a measure was desperate it’s this one. <em>This is not a drill</em>, I think, rather wildly. <em>Pull the emergency cord</em>. After all, you might not care about Jack’s distress, but I know you care about mine – and I’m not ashamed to use that to my advantage if I have to.</p><p>“Please,” I now add. I say your name very softly to show you I mean it: stare intently, straight into your eyes. “<em>Please – </em>do it for me.”</p><p>I don’t think I’ve ever come so close to begging you for anything and it’s like I can see the conflict on your face as your instinct to give me what I want collides against your own desire to raise hell. I think there’s some disappointment there too: you wanted me to savour the idea of confronting him as much as you do and now the moment’s come I won’t play along. I’m aware of holding my breath, staring into your eyes and silently urging you to do the sanest safest thing for once in your goddamn life and just <em>go</em>. Oh fuck, what if you won’t? I don’t know how I could force you. As a last resort I grip onto your hand with mine – and this time it’s as if my touch is enough to jolt you out of the ongoing struggle to put yourself first and force you to get to your feet. It’s obvious you’re not happy about it, but instead of arguing you just draw yourself up to your full height then give me a rather icy look before abruptly turning round and disappearing down the pathway. Even your exit signals resentment, but I don’t have the energy to deal with your epic sulking in addition to Jack so resolve to forget about the first one until the second is safely out the way. Not that this is a scenario I’d have willingly chosen for myself. In fact, if I’m honest, a part of me longs to dart down the pathway after you, although even as the thought occurs to me I know I’m not going to. An ambush has the practical purpose of keeping Jack occupied until you’re back at the house, but it also means confronting the inevitable. One way or another he’ll find out I’m here – the meeting with Clarice has made sure of that – and seeing him on my own terms means grasping whatever shreds of control I still have left. And so I ignore the urge to run and instead take a deep breath before standing up myself, uncomfortably aware of how I might just be on the verge of having to summon the performance of a lifetime.</p><p>Jack’s less than a minute away now. It’s going to happen…oh God, fuck, it really is. At some point I seem to have picked up your newspaper as it’s now there in my hands and I’m clinging to it in a rather pathetic way. It comes from a childish impulse to have something close to me that you’ve recently touched, but while the awareness of this is embarrassing it’s not enough to make me put it down. Then I draw a final breath and launch myself onto the path, sauntering in his direction with my eyes fixed vaguely on the lakeside like I’m admiring the view. I put a lot of effort into my posture (loose-limbed and slack-shouldered; someone without a care in the world) then make a play of pausing to polish my glasses on my shirt so there’s no way he’ll miss me. Every muscle is tensed by now, bracing for the moment I hear my name called, and the anticipation is so grinding and stressful that when it finally happens I almost feel a sense of relief.</p><p>“Will!” repeats Jack.</p><p>He’s said it twice now. The first time was slightly disbelieving but by the second he seems to have warmed up to the idea and is bordering on effusive – or at last as close as Jack gets to effusing about anything. I allow myself one more <em>fuck-my-life</em> sigh then arrange my features into an expression of suitable surprise before fully turning round. Jack is smiling so broadly I can see most of his teeth. I smile back and he makes a long inhaling noise that I suppose is meant to indicate happiness before plunging forward to give me a clumsy approximation of a hug. I wasn’t really expecting that so just hug him back because I can’t think of anything better to do – at which point we both start getting awkward at exactly the same time and promptly pull apart and start clearing our throats at each other in a hyper-masculine sort of way.</p><p>“Look at you,” says Jack eventually. He shakes his head like he can’t quite believe it – which I suppose, to be fair, he probably can’t. After that he clears his throat again, so I clear mine too to keep him company before realising that one of us is going to have to do something more proactive or else we’ll just be stood here until the sun goes down, wheezing and grunting at each other like a couple of cavemen.</p><p>“It’s great to see you,” I say instead. Then I add: “You look really well,” even though I’m not sure if he does. His face has acquired a cobweb of furrows and creases that it didn’t have before and there’s a definite sprinkling of grey in his hair. If I had to use a word to describe him it would be <em>crumpled. </em>It’s like his previous sharp edges have started to soften – no doubt just one of many legacies that you left behind for him.</p><p>“Not as well as you,” says Jack heartily. “You look great. Better than I’ve ever seen you.” As he’s speaking he glances at my throat (currently covered in an extravagant row of hickeys from where you got a bit carried away) and I can feel myself cringe. My only consolation is that he’s not Alana, because if Alana was here then she’d start interrogating me with coy questions and suggestive looks, determined to get to the bottom of who the hell has been nibbling on my neck with such enthusiasm. Not Jack though: Jack, fortunately, doesn’t give a shit. Even so, the obviousness of them feels awkward.</p><p>“Good for you,” adds Jack, in the same hearty voice. “Living <em>La Dolce Vita</em>. I’d do the same if I was your age.”</p><p>Seeing how I can’t imagine Jack being my age – and refuse to imagine him living <em>La Dolce Vita – </em>I discreetly flick my collar up to hide my slutty neck then ask him when he arrived, despite the fact I already know. Admittedly I’m curious as to why he’s here ahead of schedule, but any ideas of hidden plots and secret subterfuge are quickly deflated when it turns out that it was nothing more interesting that his PA messing up his booking.  </p><p>“<em>Incredibly</em> inconvenient,” says Jack, briefly sounding more like himself again. I definitely prefer it: at least I know where I am with him when he’s being grumpy. “That’s why I’m here; I figured I might as well get a bit of sight-seeing in while I have the chance.” He scowls a bit then pantomimes fanning himself. “Only it’s so damn hot.”</p><p>Seeing how this is one of my own recurring complaints I immediately have a lot of understanding for it so make a sympathetic noise in response. Not that you’re ever remotely sympathetic when I say it to you (the standard reply tending to run along the lines of ‘<em>It’s Italy in the summer, beloved: it’s supposed to be hot’</em>). I now repeat the sympathetic noise to prove that I’m not a literal and metaphorical cold-blooded bastard (unlike <em>some</em> people) and Jack adds in the same irritable way: “Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. Nothing’s set up for me until tomorrow.”</p><p>I now have an awful feeling his hotel might not be reserved so start compiling a frantic list of alternatives to prevent him asking to crash at my place and ending up in an unexpected sleepover situation with you. Fortunately it turns out his PA has got him into <em>Antica Torre Tornabuoni</em> (no doubt as atonement for the missing tickets), although I’ve been so tormented with unpleasant coincidences in the past few days that I wouldn’t be surprised if he <em>had</em> asked to stay. In fact, between Jack and Clarice, the only thing left for a full hat-trick would be Matteo popping up from nowhere to enquire over the whereabouts of my tall, dark friend with the distinctive accent. It’s actually incredibly easy to imagine – just like the dawning look of horror on Jack’s face as he heard the description and the pieces fell into place.</p><p>Jack now scowls again, presumably lost in a post-mortem of missing tickets and absent hotels, before remembering that this is supposed to be a Sentimental Reunion and putting a friendly hand on my shoulder instead. Thank God you’ll be out of viewing distance by now. The one thing guaranteed to drive you insane is other people touching me, and he’s done it so much by now I’m half-expecting it to have activated some kind of sixth sense and you’re about to emerge from some nearby bushes to take him out.</p><p>“This is so unexpected Will,” adds Jack. “I’m sorry if I seem distracted, I’m just really surprised. I was hoping I might run into you at some point, but I’d never have guessed it would happen so soon.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I say. “I bet you didn’t.”</p><p>“So how long have you lived here now? Your last email didn’t make it clear.”</p><p>I shake my head very firmly before he’s even finished asking. “No, just passing through. I’m not really looking for a permanent base.”</p><p>“Passing through on time for <em>Il Macellaio</em>?” asks Jack. This is said in quite a jovial way (confirming that I officially have the type of life where hanging round serial killers is considered a punchline). “I guess it was inevitable we’d cross paths again over one of these guys.”</p><p>For a few seconds our eyes meet and it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing: namely that he’d have expected it to be <em>one of those guys</em> in particular. I don’t really care though. The meeting with Clarice might have been disastrous for forcing a clash with Jack, but at least it’s helped me prepare for it. That stilted scene in the <em>trattoria</em> was a good dress-rehearsal for discussing you and it means I don’t feel the same sense of strain as before. If anything I’m pleased with how calm I’m managing to be, even though public calmness is admittedly a bit of a default by this point in my life. Compared to a few years ago my neurotic, highly-strung side only ever gets indulged in when I allow it to be – which means it’s a side of me that only you ever really get to see. Awkwardness, on the other hand, is an entirely different issue, because there’s no doubt that this is what this conversation is. It’s awkwardness that is positively operatic in proportion: tooth-grindingly, muscle-clenchingly uncomfortable. For me it stems from anxiety over keeping you safe (and, if I’m honest, a nagging sense of guilt at being so deceitful) but Jack’s unease is clearly far more innocent in origin. It actually makes me feel bad for him. After all, I must have become a sort of ghost to him by now: a blood-stained wraith from the past that drags across his mind at intervals trailing memories of misery and horror. Stumbling over me like this has been a genuine shock, and no doubt rather anti-climactic too. He’d probably imagined our reunion to be very solemn and dignified, possibly in a police station with crime scene photos papering the wall and phones shrieking in the background. Instead I’m here, bumbling around with a newspaper and polishing my glasses like someone’s grandma, and it’s caught him massively off-guard.</p><p>“So how’s it felt for you then?” Jack asks, abruptly switching gears again from good-natured back to grumpy. “Being here? After…you know.”</p><p>I raise my eyebrows but he just shrugs in response, apparently incapable of summoning a suitable way to describe it. In fact this goes on for so long (me looking expectant and Jack looking ominous) that I eventually get bored of waiting and answer “It’s fine” in a deliberately firm voice. Jack promptly looks sceptical and I add: “Why wouldn’t it be? All that happened years ago.”</p><p>“Even so,” says Jack. “<em>Here</em>, of all places. There’s so many things that must remind you of Hannibal.”</p><p>Now it’s my turn to shrug. “Not especially,” I say. Privately I feel a bit annoyed; it’s like he thinks I spend my time trailing round the city in a sort of Greatest Hits Tour reminiscing over all the sites we tried to kill each other in. Although admittedly that’s the type of Sad Bastard thing I probably <em>would</em> have ended up doing if I hadn’t found you again, so I suppose I can’t really complain.</p><p>In the end I just shrug even harder, rather like I’ve depleted my mental stockpile of shits to give. “I try not to think about it,” I add. Jack looks unconvinced (again), so I cast around for some suitably trite platitude to seal the deal. Eventually I settle on “Life’s too short,” despite being aware that it sounds (1) shit, (2) in this content, incredibly morbid, and (3) raises a real possibility that your fondness for terrible <em>double entendres </em>has been sexually transmitted to me, the same way chlamydia might be in a normal person.</p><p>“Well <em>I’ve</em> been thinking about him,” confides Jack. “It was the strangest feeling Will. Just setting foot in the airport was a like scene from a movie or something. It all came rushing back.”</p><p>Seeing how Jack’s not usually prone to waxing lyrical about his feelings, I decide to interpret this statement as a compliment to you and how thoroughly you’ve managed to lodge yourself under his skin. Not that I can blame him. You’ve always had that ability and are no doubt currently living rent free in countless people’s heads. You certainly did in mine. You were (are) magnetic, and regardless of the circumstance my instinct was almost always to cling to you. Even when you were hurting me I’d still do it. Even when you were trying to destroy my morality and sanity. Nothing was ever enough to fully let you go and, judging from the strained preoccupation, it seems like Jack is doing a version of the exact same thing.</p><p>“I can understand that,” is all I say. I sound incredibly stilted and nervy, much like the way I used to when I last knew him. The reserve is deliberate: a way of draping my previous personality all over myself as if it’s a suit of armour.</p><p>Jack gives a bark of humourless laughter. “Yeah, I bet you can. I’ll be honest with you Will: when they first got in touch with us about <em>Il Macellaio</em> I actually caught myself wondering if it could be Hannibal.”</p><p>“It isn’t,” I say, ultra-casual. “It’s not his style at all. The newspaper reports alone were enough to tell me that.”</p><p>Jacks shifts irritably from one foot to the other. “Obviously. But somehow I just felt it was exactly the sort of thing he would do. You know? Like it would be the ultimate game.”</p><p>I blink a few times, trying to work out if he’s serious. “He wouldn’t alter his method that much Jack,” I finally reply. “He’d find it…boring. It was always about the tableaux with him: the <em>way</em> something was presented mattered as much to him as what was being displayed.”  </p><p>“Obviously,” repeats Jack. He sounds impatient now; frustrated at the way I don’t get it. “I’m not seriously suggesting it’s Hannibal. What can I tell you? He’s just on my mind, is all. I guess I wasn’t as prepared to come back here as I thought I was.”</p><p>Admissions of weakness are extremely out of character for Jack, and as I gaze back at his weary expression I suddenly find myself feeling sorry for him. I suppose it’s partly just jetlag and general irritation, yet his fraught manner is still a truly stinging indictment of how much your memory has come alive for him. In that respect meeting me so unexpectedly will hardy be helping.</p><p>“It’s where he hid before,” continues Jack, half to himself. He briefly goes quiet again and I start nodding as silent encouragement to continue. “He knows how to blend into a crowd,” Jack eventually adds, so I carry on nodding while thinking <em>That sounds</em> <em>just like me</em>. “Insert himself into a new environment,” (<em>Just like me</em>) “and make people think he’s the same as them,” (<em>Just like me</em>), “then go completely wild without warning and end up on a wanted poster” (<em>Just like…fuck</em>). “He could be in the city right now and we wouldn’t even know.”</p><p>It’s at this point I release I <em>really</em> need to shut this down before it goes any further. “Hardly,” I blurt out. “Come on Jack. The FBI’s involvement has been publicised for weeks. You really think he could resist advertising himself?”</p><p>“No,” replies Jack; he sounds a bit grudging. “Probably not.”</p><p>“<em>Definitely</em> not,” I say firmly. “You and I here at the same time? He’d have already made the biggest scene he possibly could.” Then it occurs to me that I might sound a bit too fond, so have to clear my throat again and stare intently into the distance (scowling away like I’m mentally reproaching you for being a massive drama queen instead of secretly doting over you for it).</p><p>Jack lets out a louder sigh then manages to rally himself enough to give me another clap on the shoulder. “Hey, look, just ignore me,” he says. “You’ve caught me at a bad time. I’ll probably feel embarrassed about this conversation later.”</p><p>“Don’t be,” I reply, doing my best to sound sympathetic. “I get it. You’ve had a long flight, you’re here for a tough job, and the whole place is full of memories. Anyone would be disorientated. You should head back to your hotel and get some rest.”</p><p>“Not yet,” replies Jack, with a hint of self-righteousness. “I’m trying to adjust to the new time zone. It’s partly why I’m out here – I want to stay awake until the evening.”</p><p>Now I sigh as well, although mine isn’t from tiredness but rather disappointment at losing such an easy way to get rid of him. After all, you must be nearly home by now – there’s no real reason for me to stay any longer. Admittedly in a different time and setting I might have quite enjoyed a rambling catch-up over how he’s been, but my priorities shifted long ago to solely focus on you. Nothing else really matters, not even Jack and his sighs or crumpled face. Although I suppose that’s not quite right either, because my priority has <em>always</em> been you – I just couldn’t properly admit it.</p><p>Jack now sighs, right on cue, and I’m struck all over again by the incredible unfairness of choosing a tourist-heavy spot to avoid Clarice only to end up crossing paths with him instead. Not that fairness has anything much to do with it; when is life ever fair? In fact, it seems like my relief at getting you out of here overtook my instincts for a while, because now I’m returning to my baseline sense of pessimism I realise how dissatisfied I still am over the whole thing. It’s either dumb bad luck or a coincidence that, at least from Jack’s point of view, is a little bit <em>too</em> good to be true, and as I stare back at him I feel myself overcome with an impulse to test it out. “I met one of your trainees this morning,” I say abruptly. “We had a drink together.”</p><p>Jack’s eyebrows begin to elevate up his forehead. “Oh? Which one? We have three out here.”</p><p>This claim to ignorance is frustrating yet expected, although I know there’s not much I can do about it. If he <em>was </em>already aware of the meeting, he’s clearly not intending to say so. “It was a young woman,” I reply, equally casual. “Clarice.”</p><p>“Oh yes, Clarice,” says Jack with unusual warmth. “Clarice is <em>excellent.</em> Incredibly insightful.”</p><p>“Yeah, she seemed that way.”</p><p>“She’s definitely going places,” says Jack, and there’s something about his shift in tone – self-conscious and slightly gruff – that makes me feel like he might be nurturing a secret crush on her. Of course he’s far too moral and professional to ever act on it, but I know the mere fact of its existence will ensure a crippling sense of guilt about it for as long as it lasts.</p><p>“You told her I might be here?” I add. Technically this is a question, but I phrase it firmly enough to imply I already know the answer. Jack would normally be far too crafty to fall for such an obvious ploy, but fortunately I’ve got the jetlag on my side and he now catches my eye before hunching both shoulders into a shrug.</p><p>“Yes, I mentioned it,” he says. “It seemed like too good an opportunity to pass up.”</p><p>For a few moments I continue to stare at him as I silently digest this. In other words, what it probably means is that he’s had his whole team on the look-out for me since they first arrived, and the renewed awareness of how close you might’ve come to getting spotted makes me feel physically sick. In fact, the more I think about it, the more likely it seems I might have been previously spotted myself – possibly by one of the other trainees who, unlike Clarice, lacked the nerve to approach me in person. It would certainly explain <em>Lago di Bilancino </em>as a regular spot for me to be found in (I now cast a slightly rueful glance at the cygnets, as if they’ve been acting as double agents the entire time). Thank fuck for my unwillingness to be affectionate in public. To an outside eye we’d have just seemed like two strangers sharing a space and, if my suspicions <em>are</em> true, then they clearly didn’t get close enough to recognise you. Even so…<em>Jesus</em>. It seems your long-standing confidence in the merits of ‘hiding in plain sight’ might be more accurate than I gave you credit for, but it doesn’t change the dizzying extent of the risk we’ve been under. Oh God, this is <em>entirely</em> your fault. We could’ve been long gone weeks ago if you hadn’t insisted on staying for a final confrontation.</p><p>These reflections are hardly designed to put me in a good mood, yet none of them can explain the question that bothers me the most, which is <em>why. </em>Why go to so much trouble to find me? To pin me down to help with <em>Il Macellaio</em>? As a form of live bait to try and draw you out? Or perhaps it’s none of that at all. Perhaps it’s just my own paranoia and the meetings with Jack and Clarice were simply the coincidences they first appeared to be. After all, even extreme coincidences <em>can</em> happen. In a room of just 23 people there’s always a 50-50 chance two of them will have the same birthday. The Birthday Paradox…I didn’t believe it could possibly be true until I did the math myself to confirm it. Yet deep down I can’t help feeling that it’s not; that in this case, coincidence is just Jack’s way of making himself anonymous. It only takes a matter of seconds for these thoughts to tumble through my mind, but ultimately I know there’s no way to be sure. At least not right now. It’s clear he’s not in the mood to confirm it and from the way his expression’s closed down – tight-lipped, furrowed brow – I can tell that additional questions are useless. But the only thing that <em>really</em> matters is that you haven’t been seen: and in the meantime you’re at home without me, and the need to have you close is almost overwhelming.</p><p>“Look, I’m really sorry but I have to get going,” I say abruptly. “I’m on my way to…” I pause then wave towards my glasses like I’m imploring them to give me an alibi. “To the optician.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” replies Jack. “How’d you get on with that? No one here seems to speak English.” He scowls a bit, briefly transformed into the quintessential American abroad who’s mortally offended at foreigners daring to use their native language in their own country. “Most Europeans are fluent. I was in the Netherlands earlier in the year and they spoke it better than I do.”</p><p>“<em>Parlo un po d'italiano,” </em>I say. I have a sudden image of you and give a faint smile. “Although apparently my accent is terrible.”</p><p>“Sounds good to me,” replies Jack in a kindly way. “I guess smart people can pick up a language quickly. I’ve never had a good ear for it myself.” For a few seconds he falls silent before that intense, distant look returns to his face. “How many did Hannibal know again?”</p><p>“Four,” I say. “I think.” It’s actually five (and I know for a fact that you can speak fluent bullshit in all of them) but I don’t feel like advertising an intimate knowledge of your accomplishments. It’s stupid really; it’s not like it was a secret. There’s no reason why I <em>shouldn’t</em> know. Even so, maintaining a pretence at distance feels more comfortable.</p><p>Jack takes a few seconds to digest this information about your various languages before seeming to make another attempt to banish you from his mind. I feel as if I can see him do it – it’s like he’s making a conscious effort not to think about you anymore.</p><p>“Well, don’t let me keep you,” he says finally, despite the fact that’s exactly what he’s doing. In desperation I take my glasses off again then give them another rub with my shirt, very slow and cautious as if they’re an ailing pet. <em>Look at these poor, precarious bastards</em>, the gesture says. <em>Let me take them away and put them out of their misery</em>.</p><p>“And keep in touch won’t you?” adds Jack.</p><p>“Sure,” I say lightly. “Of course.”</p><p>“We need to catch up properly: I want to hear how you’ve been.”</p><p>“There’s not much to say really. I’ve been fine.” I give another smile, this time more genuine. “I’m happy.”</p><p>Jack’s eyes to dart to my neck without seeming able to stop themselves before returning to my face again. “Good,” is all he says. “You deserve a bit of peace. You’ll have to tell me more about it.” Then he pauses once more as his eyebrows start to knit across his forehead: I watch their progress with a growing sense of annoyance. <em>Oh hell</em>, I think, <em>here it comes</em>. “And at some point I’d like your thoughts on <em>Il Macellaio</em>.”</p><p>“I’m out of that now Jack,” I say firmly. “You know I am.”</p><p>Jack holds out his hands in a way that’s clearly meant to look beseeching. “I know. It’s just your opinion I want Will, that’s all. It’s not like I’m expecting you to roll up your sleeves and get back in the field.”</p><p>Considering that this is <em>exactly</em> what he’ll be expecting me to do I immediately feel myself getting angry. So much for deserving a bit of peace. It reminds me of how he’s always had a positive genius for delivering high-handed lectures on my wellbeing – until the exact moment that my wellbeing becomes personally inconvenient, at which point it can pretty much go and fuck itself. Not to mention the fact that me collaborating with Jack behind your back is the one thing guaranteed to make you lose <em>all</em> your shit. But there’s no way I want to spend time arguing over it, so in the end just assume a deliberately neutral expression instead.</p><p>“I’m not in the right headspace,” I reply. “Not at the moment.”</p><p>“Really?” says Jack. His disappointment is obvious, although there’s no doubt he’s starting to get that wistful, paternal air which always seems to descend on him whenever I strike him as being particularly tragic. I promptly decide I may as well exploit it a bit more, so do my best to look as sad and sorrowful as possible. “Well…that’s a shame,” adds Jack sympathetically. “Your input would have been invaluable.”</p><p>I pause for a few seconds then give Jack a long mournful look from over the top of my glasses. “Not necessarily. I’ve got a bit rusty.”</p><p>“<em>You</em>? Rusty? I don’t think so. Hey, what would you say to some media engagement instead? RAI are interviewing me about the case next week – and they’ll almost certainly ask about Hannibal.”</p><p>“No way,” I shriek, briefly forgetting to be pitiful. “Come on Jack. Why would I want to do that?”</p><p>Even Jack has the grace to look slightly embarrassed. “You’re right,” he says. “I shouldn’t have asked you. But I’ll be in touch at some point; we should go for a meal.” Briefly his eyes go back to my neck again. “And feel free to bring a guest…if you want to.”</p><p>For an awful moment I think I’m actually going to laugh and have to resort to giving my glasses another rub. “Sure,” is all I say.</p><p>“I’ve still got your cell number.”</p><p>“Great,” I say, reaching into my pocket to turn it off.</p><p>“Oh, and here’s some more good news: Price and Zeller are going to be joining me. I’m sure they’d love to see you.”</p><p>I have a sudden, surreal image of the entire BSU descending on Italy <em>en masse</em> by parachute and promptly feel depressed again. <em>For the love of God</em>, I want to say. <em>Why can’t everyone just fuck off? </em>“Okay,” I reply, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Let me know.”</p><p>Jack smiles then gives me a final pat on the shoulder. He never used to be this affectionate; it’s clear he’s feeling more unsettled than even he’s letting on. “It’s good to see you Will,” he says. “I’m sorry if I haven’t seemed very sociable. Like I said, this place has a lot of associations. Everywhere I look is a reminder that Hannibal could still be out there – and that if he <em>is</em> alive and wanted a showdown then this is the exact place he’d choose. The fact you’re here as well…” He pauses suggestively then shrugs. “You know what I mean.”</p><p>“Yeah,” I say flatly. “I know.”</p><p>“Maybe I’m paranoid,” adds Jack. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” His tone is light, play-acting at jovial, but underneath I can tell he’s completely serious. “Either way I still came prepared. You know we can’t normally travel with firearms, but a diplomatic permit comes in <em>very</em> useful when you need it to.” He pauses again, his voice hardening as he gestures to the side of his jacket where a gun holster would normally be. “Call me crazy if you want Will, but a part of me hopes he <em>does</em> show up. It would be the biggest favour that bastard could ever do for me – giving me a chance to take him out for good.”</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter 16</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lolol I’ve been off AO3 for a while to work on my cReAtIvE pRoCeSs and now I’ve come back and have absolutely nothing to show for it except 14k words of porn. You’re welcome, internet. Rest assured I am very proud of myself XD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This time I don’t even make it through the doorway before getting pounced on…which to be honest is exactly what I was expecting. It was inevitable you’d either plot another silent ambush like this morning, or else your patience would expire entirely and you’d spring me as soon as you heard the gate open – so while the pouncing is annoying, it’s not all that surprising. But either way it makes me feel sorry for myself, because the only thing I want right now is some peace (namely a dark room and a bottle of beer) and the last thing I want is what I’m actually getting (which is being pushed halfway up against the wall then smothered in a sharp haze of cheekbones). It’s also ironic, because I have a powerful urge to just fling my arms round you then hold you as tight as possible, yet a toxic brew of resentment, relief and irritation is making it hard to show what I’m really feeling. In the end I push you off me instead, then retreat a few steps backwards to lean against the doorframe.</p><p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” I add when it’s looks like you’re about to jump me again. “I’m not in the mood.”</p><p>Even as I’m explaining this I’m not expecting you to listen, and of course you don’t. Moods and feelings only interest you in a certain context (mostly destructive ones; the more deranged the better) after which you’ll ignore them completely and focus on the facts instead. Not that I can blame you. After all, the facts in this instance are that I’ve spent 20 unsupervised minutes in the presence of one of your main adversaries, so naturally you’re going to want the details. It almost gives me a weird sense of obligation to provide a satisfying narrative (suitably thrilling, garnished with dramatic flourish) but then I find myself remembering Jack’s weary face and realise what a struggle it’ll be to cast him in such a solemn-sounding role as Arch Enemy. What even was he to you before he became this? Or maybe that’s not the right question to ask; most likely you never thought about him at all. In this respect your view of the world is surprisingly simple, in that you only tend to see people as one of three categories (arch enemies, potential meals and mongooses) and then work backwards to plot each interaction accordingly.  </p><p>I now sigh to myself again and you wait a few more moments before ignoring my instructions and prowling over (exactly as predicted) so you can take hold of my shoulders. “Look at you,” you say softly. “<em>Sei così bello. </em>You’re mine now – he can’t have you back again.”</p><p>I let out another, even louder sigh: it’s meant to be grave and serious but seems to go a bit wrong halfway through and comes out more like a deflating balloon. “Don’t be so melodramatic,” I tell you; and which in theory sounds like good advice, but in practice has about the same usefulness as telling water not to be wet. “We’ve been through this already. He doesn’t ‘want me back’ – and even if he did I’d never go.”</p><p>Your features promptly arrange themselves into one of your favourite ‘<em>don’t bullshit a bullshitter’</em> expressions. “No?” you say. “So he didn’t ask you to assist him with <em>Il Macellaio</em>?”</p><p>“Not formally, no.”</p><p>“Not formally, no. So he wants an informal alliance instead?” This time the words are accessorised with a sinister little smile. It’s the sort of smile that looks as if it was directed by David Lynch, complete with a faint glimmer of teeth. “Not that the formality really matters, does it Will? You know I’m not referring to that.”</p><p>This is announced a very casual tone, but it makes me wince anyway, because <em>of course</em> I know. What you’re really talking about isn’t so much the investigation as much as a metaphorical sense of Jack wanting me back on the side of righteousness (whereas my perspective is that he doesn’t know I’ve left so the question isn’t even relevant). I suppose it’s also the source of your earlier anger. You want to claim ownership of me in front of Jack – seal the deal, as it were – and resent that I’ve denied you an opportunity. What’s also obvious is that you’re holding back from expressing the worst of it, probably because you don’t want to take your anger out on me when Jack is the genuine, yet unavailable, target. It makes me wonder what it’s going to look like when you finally show what you’re <em>really</em> feeling, although seeing how I’m not being open with you either it’s not like I can complain. The conclusion, in other words, is that we’re both as emotionally useless as each other.</p><p>As to confirm this it’s only now that I realise how intensely you’ve begun to stare at me: so taut and rigid, a bit like an animal assessing its prey. “Did he touch you?” you add.</p><p>I blink a few times. I wasn’t totally expecting this: even by your standards it seems excessive. “He shook my hand,” I say. My fluency at lying is getting better all the time (doubtless from such prolonged exposure to you) but judging from the way your eyes have started narrowing it’s still not going to be enough. “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “What else was he supposed to do?”</p><p>Even you don’t seem to have a reasonable response to this, although it’s not enough to stop you being an ungodly drama queen about it. I suppose that’s something else that was inevitable – a sign you need to do something with your tension while also making sure you don’t do anything to me. “I can smell him all over you,” you add. By now your eyes have almost disappeared into little glinting slits of disapproval. “I want you to take a shower.”</p><p>“Later.”</p><p>“No – now.”</p><p>“<em>Later</em>,” I say sharply. “Can’t you just…I don’t know. Hold your nose or something.”</p><p>“He’s done more than shake your hand,” you say. You sound very ominous, although at least don’t try to order me into the shower again. My Warning Voice has obviously worked; I make a mental note to try it out on you more often. “So Uncle Jack wishes for Agent Graham to join his taskforce,” you add instead. “Once more you have been placed between the sheep and the wolves: requested to follow the herd while secretly yearning to join the pack. What else took place between you? And don’t say ‘nothing’. You can’t possibly expect me to be satisfied with so few details of the scene.”</p><p>“There’s not really that much to tell. He was surprised to see me – obviously.”</p><p>You start smiling again. “Obviously.”</p><p>“Surprised but pleased. It was incredibly awkward.”</p><p>“Again – obviously. His capacity for oblivion was always impressive. I didn’t expect it to have improved since the last time we last saw him.”</p><p>My only response is a shrug. I don’t really want to talk about Jack’s obliviousness in relation to you, mainly because it’s too uncomfortable a mirror of my own. In fact, if anything, I was even worse: so blithe and so unaware for so very long, comprehending all the predators around me while never noticing the one who was nearest and deadliest until it was far too late. “He’d arrived ahead of schedule,” I add rather lamely. “It was because of a mistake at the airline. He seemed tired…irritable.”</p><p>You make an impatient gesture with your hand, which I suppose is meant to imply that this is also obvious and you want something more substantial. For a few seconds I feel myself wavering, torn between a lingering sense of loyalty to Jack <em>vs.</em> providing your colossal ego with an additional massage. I suppose I shouldn’t really. It’s not like it isn’t big enough already: anymore and it’ll be like a third person in the apartment and we’ll have to start charging it rent. I sigh a bit as the two battle together in my mind before the former inevitably wins out.</p><p>“And he talked about you,” I add. “<em>A lot</em>. He was far more preoccupied than I thought he’d be. I’d even say that you’re on his mind more than <em>Il Macellaio</em> is.”</p><p>You dip your head in response, very calm and collected. It’s clear you’re not surprised by this. No doubt you probably just see it as your due…you big arrogant bastard. I start to smile with the familiar blend of affectionate annoyance, then take advantage of your lapsed attention to pull away so I can walk over to the desk and prop myself against it with my hands in my pockets. You immediately follow and I give you a severe look from over the top of my glasses that’s meant as a warning to give me some space. You ignore it enough to continue walking over, although as a concession don’t try to take hold of me again.</p><p>“So what did <em>you</em> do?” you ask. “I want you to describe it for me.”</p><p>For a few seconds I fantasise about going full teenager on you with some suitably surly retort: <em>Like, duh, what do you think I did?</em> Only there’s no point because you won’t know what ‘duh’ means, so I’d have to explain it to you, and just…no. “I’m sure you can probably guess” I say wryly. “I stood there and lied like <em>your</em> life depended on it.”</p><p>You repeat the same impatient handwave as before. This, clearly, is yet another thing that’s obvious. “But I wish to be able to picture it for myself,” you say. “I imagine you as very poised and picturesque, speaking beautiful deceptions and leading him exactly to where you wanted him to go. I would like to know about your expression, your tone of voice…you must furnish me with details.”</p><p>“I will not furnish you with anything,” I say. “Because quite frankly I don’t have the energy. You’ll have to fill in the blanks on your own.”  I bet you will as well...oh God, knowing you you’ll probably <em>draw</em> it. “He had a gun,” I add in a bleaker voice. “Jack. He applied for a special permit to bring it over.”</p><p>“Of course he did,” you say briskly. “I would have expected little else.”</p><p>“And did you expect him to bring it over with <em>you</em> in mind?”</p><p>“Naturally,” you say. You catch me looking at you and give a little shrug. “As would you if you’d allowed yourself to consider it. You’re still in denial, <em>mano meilė</em>. Your insight hasn’t failed you, but I’m afraid on this occasion you have fallen prey to wishful thinking.”</p><p>Stubbornness makes me wants to contradict you, except there’s no real point because I know what you’re saying is true. You, on the other hand, have got the exact opposite problem, because if I expect the worst and hope for the best then you just set fire to the expectations before gleefully settling down to watch them ignite. The thought of the risk it involves is enough to make my earlier resentment start to rekindle – a feeling not helped by the way you’re currently lounging around like someone without a single concern in the world.</p><p>“I can’t believe you didn’t get out of there sooner,” I say irritably. “Another minute and he would have seen you.”</p><p>“Why shouldn’t you believe it?” you reply: you sound a bit irritated yourself. “I’ve made it very clear that I don’t share your aversion to meeting him. Once more, we are repeating old ground.”</p><p>While it’s true this argument has become well-worn, familiarity has done nothing to anesthetize me to it and the mere idea is still enough to make me shudder. If I closed my eyes I could even picture it: the panicked phone calls, the blare of sirens, the alarms spreading wider and wider in a frantic search through the city. Surely they’d find you this time round. How could they not?</p><p>“It would have been a <em>disaster</em>,” I say gloomily. “For both of us.”</p><p>From the corner of my eye I can see you beginning to stare. “You still don’t have much confidence in me do you?” you finally reply, and if I didn’t know any better I’d say you sounded sad – or at least as close as you ever come to it. “Do you really think I’d put you at such a risk? I never intended for us to be seen together today. For that to happen it will need to be a situation where he can’t act upon the information.”</p><p>Which of course means a situation where you could kill him straight afterwards. It also means that we’re speaking at cross-purposes (again), because while your preference seems to have been for me to leave and you to see him, my instinct was the exact opposite. Yours is the route of theatricality and drama, whereas mine is practicality and pragmatism. It seems such a wide chasm to breach; sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever be able to manage it.</p><p>“I just want you to be safe,” I say finally. I sound a bit pathetic, like I should be playing the world’s tiniest violin. “I wasn’t worried about myself.”</p><p>The frustration makes me realise how crushingly tired I am and now I take my glasses off to scrub a weary hand across my face. The motion dislodges a sheaf of nearby papers, but as I stoop down to retrieve them I immediately feel myself flinch. “What the hell is this?” I say sharply. “Why are you writing a will?” A short pause follows and when I speak again I can hear the strain in my voice. “There’s…there’s nothing <em>wrong</em> with you is there?”</p><p>“There is nothing remotely wrong with me. Don’t look so tragic: if I were ill I would tell you. And I am not writing it, I am updating it. I possess several bonds which recently increased in value and I wish to ensure they’re properly documented.” You give me a rather sardonic smile. “Managing a portfolio is complicated for someone in my position. Lots of different aliases in several different countries, all of which the government would be very pleased to confiscate given the opportunity.”</p><p>“I guess,” I say warily.</p><p>“It is not a matter of guessing: it is the prudent thing to do. I have considerable assets, and if anything happened to me…”</p><p>“Don’t say that,” I blurt out. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.” It’s unusual for me to be so demonstrative and I immediately hate the way I sound – irrational and childish, like I think the mere act of saying it is enough to make it true.</p><p>“I’m flattered that you think so,” you reply in the same calm way. “Nevertheless, I’m not immortal. And if anything <em>did</em> happen to me then I’d want to make sure you were properly taken care of.”</p><p>For a few seconds I just stare at you, blinking mournfully as I struggle to acknowledge the implications of this. I of all people should know the risks and rewards of a life like yours, yet somehow it’s still deeply unsettling to be confronted with it in such a blunt form as a will – especially following straight on from the meeting with Jack.</p><p>“So, I would get all your money then?” I say, attempting levity to disguise how unhappy I feel.</p><p>“Indeed you would: you are my main heir and beneficiary. I suppose I should be cautious shouldn’t I? I have just given you an excellent motive to push me down a flight of stairs.”</p><p>“Mmm, yes, I suppose you have,” I say. “Watch your back old man.”</p><p>“What a little horror you are,” you reply, pretending to be shocked. “Watch your rudeness or I shall disinherit you.”</p><p>“You do that. I’d just forge your will and leave the whole lot to myself.”</p><p>“Yes,” you say wryly. “I suppose you’d be fully capable of such a feat. They do say ‘where there’s a <em>will</em> there’s a way’.” I roll my eyes at you and you smirk a bit then add: “Although if you do then be sure to make a convincing job of it. You wouldn’t want your fraud to be detected. Discovery would mean poverty: you would be forced to work for a living and abandon your life of leisure as a trust fund baby.”</p><p>“Ugh, shut up. I am <em>not</em> a trust fund baby.”</p><p>“I regret to inform you that’s exactly what you are,” you say happily. “And if you push me down a flight of stairs then your situation would not improve. Your trust fund would merely transition from virtual to literal.”</p><p>“Then I guess I’ll just have to work extra hard to look after you, won’t I?” I reply. “Anything to avoid the social shame of getting called a trust fund baby for the rest of my life.” You smirk again and I walk up behind you so I can wrap my arms round your waist. “You’ve done it purpose haven’t you?” I add. “Any excuse to torture me.”</p><p>You make an amused noise and I tighten my grip on you then bury my face between your shoulder blades so I can breathe you in. It seems like ages since I was properly happy. Everything’s exploded in the span of a few short weeks, and now that Jack’s here how can it not get worse?</p><p>“What’s the matter?” you ask. “You are slumping. You only ever slump when you’re dejected.”</p><p>“Nothing’s the matter. I’m just tired.”</p><p>“You seem rather more than that.”</p><p>“Well, what do you expect?” I mutter into your shirt. “One wrong move and the entire FBI will be looking for you.”</p><p>“They are already looking. Yet see how successful they have been?”</p><p>“It’s not the same,” I say wearily. “You know it isn’t.”</p><p>Naturally you refuse to admit this and instead just take hold of my hands so you can spin me round until I’m facing you. I want to protest but find I can’t really be bothered so give you a small shove instead to indicate annoyance (which you completely ignore).</p><p>“Poor Jack,” you say mockingly. “No doubt he is on the phone to Baltimore at this very moment, beside himself with delight at having caught a glimpse of you. Will Graham, in the flesh – just as beautiful and brilliant as always.”</p><p>“I think his description would be a little less…florid,” I say drily. “You seem to be mixing him up with yourself.”</p><p>You smile a bit more then reach up with a forefinger to neatly flick open the top button of my shirt. “Even so, consider how delighted he is going to be. He thinks you’re ready to cast in your colours again with the force of law and order. He has no idea at all does he? None of them know the truth about you…no one except me.”  </p><p>Your eyes are glinting in a way that makes you look slightly wild and as you unfasten a second button it finally occurs to me that the idea of lying through my teeth to Jack then coming home to you straight afterwards has <em>massively</em> turned you on. “<em>Amore mio</em>,” you add, as if to prove my point. “How beautiful you are: all your dark desire. I can <em>smell </em>it on you.” You trail your fingers along my wrists, over my ribs then across my hips before roughly tugging me forward so you can bury your face in my neck. “My admiration for you is so inconvenient Will,” you murmur against my skin. “I ought to be very angry with you for this afternoon.”</p><p>I tip my head back a little to give you better access to my throat then tightly wrap both arms around your waist. “Oh shut up,” I say. “Seriously, just be quiet for once. You should be grateful to me.”</p><p>“Perhaps I should be – but I am not. I have sacrificed an <em>infinite</em> amount of satisfaction on your behalf. Only think how happy it would have made me to be able to greet Jack in person? Instead I have given it all up to oblige you.” </p><p>“Yeah, life’s hard.”</p><p>“You should apologise,” you say, flicking open another button.</p><p>“You should cry me a river.”</p><p>You start to smile again but continue unbuttoning my shirt – very slow and methodical – before taking hold of my chin to tilt my face upwards. “Such a lost opportunity,” you say. “It is extremely disappointing. How do you propose to make it up to me?”</p><p>I smirk back at you then pointedly twist my face free. “Honestly?” I say. “I have absolutely no intention of making it up to you.”</p><p>Your smile immediately starts to broaden. “What, no suggestions at all? That’s rather surprising Will – you’re normally so imaginative. Not that it really matters. I have several plans of my own.”</p><p>“Yeah I bet you do.” I can feel myself struggling with an urge to laugh. You’re so theatrical sometimes; I’m not sure if you even realise it. “These plans of yours,” I add. “Do I actually get a choice in any of them?”</p><p>“Not on this occasion,” you say airily. “On this occasion you are going to do what you’re told.”</p><p>“Am I really?”</p><p>“Certainly you are: you know you are capable of obedience when you really put your mind to it. Now tell me, have you made any arrangements for this afternoon?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“Excellent. That saves some time, because if you did then you would have had to cancel them.”</p><p>“And why would I have had to cancel them?”</p><p>“<em>Because</em>,” you say, “you are going to be occupied for the rest of the day – working extremely hard to show me how sorry you are.”</p><p>I finally give into the temptation to laugh and you drop a quick kiss on my forehead before letting go of me and taking a few steps backwards. “Now listen to me <em>mano meilė</em>,” you say. “You have had a great success today being cunning and charming, but now you’re back home with me and I feel a need to re-establish who you <em>really</em> belong to. Which. Is. Not. Jack.”</p><p>“Well it’s not you either,” I say rudely. God knows why I always feel the need to push you so much. It’s like I can’t help myself – just one of the endless games we play. “I belong to myself.”</p><p>“That’s as may be.” You look very serene; clearly you don’t intend to take the bait. “But following that, I am your official custodian.”</p><p>“Good for you,” I reply with obvious sarcasm. “Only I’m not sure that sounds quite as impressive as you think it does. You do realise in America you’d have just claimed to be the janitor?”</p><p>As soon as I say this you take a quick step forward, drawing yourself up to your full height then looming right into my space. It’s clear you’re doing it on purpose, but even though I know you won’t hurt me my instinctive response is still to feel intimidated. To disguise it I throw a ferocious scowl at you from over the top of my glasses, which makes you smile again before reaching up to smooth the frown line away with your thumb.</p><p>“How appallingly rude you are,” you say. “You realise you’re now going to have to work twice as hard as before?”</p><p>This time I don’t contradict you (although stubbornly refuse to apologise either). “A custodian is responsible for caring for something,” you add in a gentler voice. “Something precious. In America that might mean a building, but in Europe it could apply to something else entirely. A child perhaps, or a piece of jewellery…possibly even a trust fund.”</p><p>Now it’s my turn to smile and you smile back in an unusually benevolent way. “Perhaps a child is not so far off the mark,” you add. “It doesn’t matter how old you are, you retain the impetuous kind of spirit which is a true mark of youth. An <em>enfant terrible</em>. Young, ingenious, and completely unorthodox.”</p><p>“Thanks,” I say doubtfully. “I guess.”</p><p>“You are welcome. In addition to that, you are distinctly irresistible. But most of all you are <em>mine</em> – which is why you are going to stop rebelling and go upstairs to our bedroom instead.”</p><p>“Am I really?”</p><p>“Yes,” you say leisurely, like you’re doing me a huge favour by suggesting it. “See it as a type of <em>quid pro quo</em>. You are such a utilitarian that the concept should appeal to you: you have a chance to maximise my happiness while doing very little in return.”</p><p>“And why do you deserve to have your happiness maximised?”</p><p>“Because I have been incredibly generous,” you say. “I share you with other people all the time. In fact, not <em>only</em> am I generous I am also extremely reasonable, because I am merely proposing to have you to myself for an afternoon. It is a matter of hours; what if I had decided that it was to be for a few days instead?”</p><p>I raise my eyebrows so high they nearly get lost in my hair. “A few <em>days</em>?”</p><p>“Yes indeed: I could keep you here to be entirely at my disposal. Perhaps I could take all your clothes away from you to prevent you from leaving. What do you think Will? You would be very beautiful and vulnerable. Not to mention extremely resentful…which I confess would add to my enjoyment even more.”</p><p>Your tone is <em>just</em> flippant enough to make it sound like you’re joking, but I know that you’re not – there’s no doubt you’d do this in a second if you thought you could get away with it. As if to prove my point you abruptly change course from a hypothetical description into what seems more like an outright sales pitch, suggestively running your hands along my spine while I stare back at you with both eyebrows raised.</p><p>“I would take exemplary care of you in your captivity,” you say rather dreamily. “Feed you and bathe you, then carry you onto the balcony every evening so you could sleep in my arms as the sun went down. You would have no responsibilities at all. Your only task would be to look charming and make your body available to me whenever I wanted it...which admittedly would be fairly often. I would have to make sure I didn’t hurt you in my enthusiasm, wouldn’t I? I think I would give you amyl nitrate. Have you heard of that? It’s a muscle relaxant. It would make your body <em>incredibly</em> receptive; I could make love to you for hours at a time and it would never stop feeling comfortable and pleasurable.”</p><p>By now my eyebrows have raised so much they’re practically become airborne. “So I’d get to be your chemically-enhanced sex slave?” I say finally. “How incredibly tempting.”</p><p>“Hmm, yes – isn’t it? Although I think I can still guess your response to such a proposal.”</p><p>“Correct. I’m glad you can guess: your expensive psychiatric training clearly wasn’t wasted.”</p><p>You smirk a bit at this although I suspect you’re still disappointed, despite the fact you must have known I’d never go for it. “Further proof of how reasonable I am being,” is all you reply. “Because you are only required to make yourself available for a few hours. And speaking of which <em>mano meilė</em>, I believe we agreed you were going to go upstairs now?”</p><p>“Actually, we didn’t agree that at all.”</p><p>You give me one of your more inscrutable smiles: as far as you’re concerned it’s clear the matter is already settled and you’re just going to wait for me to catch up and realise it. “Once you are there you will take your clothes off,” you add, “after which you will wait for me to join you. I want you on the bed, I think, on your hands and knees. And I advise you to use the waiting time to conserve a bit of energy, because I can guarantee you are going to need it.”</p><p>I open my mouth to argue, but this time you just swivel round and vanish through the door before I’ve even had a chance to tell you to get lost. I aim another furious scowl at your departing back, but admittedly the defiance is rather half-hearted and comes more from habit than genuine opposition. If I’m honest I’m desperate for us to go to bed – although that doesn’t make your high-handed manner any less irritating. I’m not sure how you manage to get away with it (because, of course, you <em>are</em> going to get away with it). It’s a special type of arrogance, which in you manages to be charismatic but in anyone else would be borderline repulsive.</p><p>I now roll my eyes again – only this time at myself for being such a massive pushover – before admitting defeat and trudging my way upstairs. I know you’ll be pleased with how compliant I’m being, although while I shrug my clothes into an untidy heap I ignore your instructions to get on all fours and just lie on my back instead. You won’t be happy with this, but I don’t really care: waiting on hands and knees is too uncomfortable and God knows how long you’re going to be. Then I close my eyes and tip my head against the pillow, stretching luxuriously while I wait for you to get your bossy old ass upstairs. I already recognise the sort of mood you’re in. It’s controlling for sure, but in a way that’s less aggressive compared to the version that came out a few weeks ago – and which, considering the circumstances, confirms you’re deliberately holding yourself back. You’ll often go through these possessive phases, but while Jack’s presence has made this one last much longer than usual I don’t really mind. In fact, if I’m in the right mood for it, then the arrangement seems to work pretty well. It allows you to indulge your need for ownership, whereas I have a chance to get out of my head by giving up control for a while (despite still silently pulling your strings without you fully realising it).   </p><p>In this respect your current flavour of possessiveness seems to like it most when I respond to you in a way that’s passionate yet needy, and I now decide I may as well spend some of the waiting time for planning it out in advance. You especially like me begging you – the more urgent and explicit the better, so long as no slang is involved – but I’ll often struggle to do it spontaneously because of how self-conscious I feel. I even went on Pornhub once to get some inspiration, although my first attempt was so dismal I’ve since been forced to admit defeat and abandon it as a reference source. Partly this was because I ended up over-empathising with the actors and imagining how worn-out and uncomfortable they must be, but mostly because the first video I clicked on featured younger performers calling older ones ‘daddy’ (and knowing that there is <em>no possible version</em> of reality where I could ever say that to you without dissolving into cackling goblin-like laughter straight afterwards). I now tend to opt for less imaginative routes instead – lots of moaning, gasping and urgent pleas of <em>I want you to fuck me; I want you to come in me</em> – which still makes me cringe, but is always worth it because when you’re in one of these moods then hearing me talk that way is guaranteed to drive you a bit wild.</p><p>Thinking about it is already making me hard and I’m starting to struggle with a serious urge to get myself off without you until what feels like several years have passed and you finally appear in the doorway. You spend a few moments standing there in silence, possibly looking at me or possibly because you want an excuse to be dramatic (realistically, it could likely be either).</p><p>“Still rebelling I see?” you say at last. “You have completely ignored my request. Why am I not surprised?”</p><p>I open my eyes to roll them at you, so you roll yours right back then prowl over to sit beside me on the bed. I let out an inconvenienced noise at having to move, which makes you roll your eyes again before leaning down to nuzzle my face with yours because you know it always make me laugh.</p><p>“An improvement,” you say as you pull away. “It’s true you wear your melancholy extremely well, but I still like to see you smile on occasion.”</p><p>I suppose there’s no real reason for you to lie about this, yet somehow I still find it hard to believe. Maybe it’s because the sentiment is so simple and wholesome – and therefore not at all the sort of thing you’d normally say. “Do you?” I reply rather doubtfully. “Then maybe give me a few more reasons to.”</p><p>For a few seconds you stare at me, briefly looking even more Sphinxy and poker-faced than usual, then instead of answering just silently lower your head again to press your mouth over mine. The kiss begins slowly at first with a gentle slide of tongues, but quickly grows more heated as you thrust your fingers into my hair and <em>tug </em>as my hips begin grinding feverishly against yours. My whole body seems to be quivering with sensation and I can hear my heart pounding madly in my ears; it’s moments like this I feel I could literally get drunk on you.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” I mutter when we finally pull apart to breathe. I’m so hard by now it’s actively uncomfortable; possibly this time the porn-speak begging won’t need to be rehearsed. “<em>God</em>.”</p><p>“No,” you say sardonically. “Just me.”</p><p>I let out a breathless laugh then screw my eyes closed in a way that suggests your levels of bullshit have grown physically painful. “Oh <em>do</em> shut up,” I tell you. “You’re so…”</p><p>“So what?” you ask.</p><p>I give you a faint smirk then open my mouth to reply. Only I never get the opportunity to tell you what you are, because before I can speak you’ve put your hands on my shoulders then flipped me over face-first onto the pillow like someone tossing an egg. It’s the type of thing I’d normally start bitching about, but right now I’m doing my best to act obedient and eager-to-please so accept it without complaint (even though we both know this pliancy is total bullshit and my natural stubbornness will inevitably kick in again sooner or later). The unexpectedness makes me gasp and you quickly tug me towards you, lifting me up like I weigh nothing at all then hoisting me upright onto all fours. A series of rustling noises soon follow; I assume this means you’re getting undressed yourself, but when I try to turn round you put your hand on my neck to stop me.</p><p>“Very good,” you say when you’ve finished. “Didn’t I tell you that you could obey if you tried? Now arch your back for me please. No, not like that – more of an angle.” I try to comply, but arousal is making me clumsy and a few seconds later I feel your palm pressing down on my waist. “There,” you say, pushing gently but firmly until my hips are raised while my face remains pressed against the mattress. “<em>Much</em> better.” You run your finger across my spine as you’re speaking, very careful and precise like you’re counting out the vertebra. “Are you going to calm down now?”</p><p>I know this is my cue to agree that I am, but the mood’s been broken now and I’m struggling to find the right headspace to act passive. Not that it really matters. It’s obvious you know exactly what you want, so it shouldn’t be too hard to just let you take charge and play along in the meantime. As a compromise I mutter something indistinct into the sheet then settle down and wait expectantly for something to happen. Only nothing does – and as the seconds stretch out I finally realise that your plan is to prolong things for as long as possible, the more tormenting the better. I suppose you can tell how desperate I am and keeping me on edge is your idea of punishment for earlier.</p><p>“I can already tell I’ll need to keep an eye on Jack,” you say eventually. You’re still smoothing your palm along my back, but the touch has changed now: less appreciative and more overtly possessive, accompanied by a light scrape of fingernails. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ignore your opinion on this matter, because it’s clear he wants you back again.” There’s a small pause as the pressure of your nails grows harder. “He has no idea how fiercely I would fight to keep you.”</p><p>I make an impatient sound then twist my face round so I can speak without a mouthful of sheet. “He doesn’t ‘want’ me,” I say sulkily. “Just drop it can’t you? Forget about Jack.”</p><p>By now you’ve begun to use your other hand to stroke along my thigh. The touch is so persistent: I give a small sigh then let my legs fall wider apart, helpless to resist the gently probing fingers as they slowly climb their way higher. “<em>I</em> should forget about Jack?” you finally add. “You’re the one who’s grown fixated with him.”</p><p>“Hardly,” I snap.</p><p>This time you don’t answer at all. The silence feels ominous, so I open my mouth again to insist I haven’t (even though I clearly have) only to have the words dissolve into a long moan as my legs get knocked apart and your head dips down between them to spit straight onto my ass. You then massage the rim with the pad of your thumb and as the muscle clenches with anticipation I give a small, self-conscious gasp. It’s clear you’ve noticed too because you sigh approvingly before increasing the pressure.</p><p>“Yes, you like that don’t you?,” you say softly. “You’re so eager. So attuned to me, Will – it’s perfect. Do you remember the first time I touched you like this? How resistant you were? I had to spend so long persuading your body to make itself ready for me. But look at you <em>now</em>.” As you’re speaking you speed your hand up and then, with no warning at all, thrust in a finger and twist it sharply to the side. It's intense but not painful and I give another choked-off moan, helplessly aware of the way my cock is growing stiffer and wetter with each touch. “Beautiful,” you add with obvious delight. “Look how excited you are. You’re already so receptive: I could take you right now, couldn’t I? You wouldn’t need any other preparation: I’d just slide deep inside you with no trouble at all. What do you think? Shall I try?”</p><p>As I nod rather frantically you give a series of teasing strokes, delicately probing and exploring before moving your hand again to resume rubbing your thumb in light, feathery circles. “Or perhaps not,” you add, slightly sadistically. “I’m not sure you’re ready. You’re still rather tight. Just <em>here…</em>and <em>here</em>. Can you feel it too? Perhaps you need to wait a little longer.”</p><p>You work in a second finger to prove your point which makes me reflexively buck my hips then push myself against your hand. “My love,” you say gently, beginning to stroke my back again. At some point you’ve manoeuvred yourself to kneel between my legs, which makes it impossible for me to close them even if I wanted to. “You look so sensuous, it’s perfect. You know, I think I might like to photograph you this way sometime: a memento of the occasion to savour at a future date. Perhaps I should even send the pictures to Jack. What do you think, Will? That would clear up any lingering misconceptions he might still have about you.”</p><p>Of course, I know you never <em>would</em> do this (not, admittedly, because any sense of decency would prevent you, but because you couldn’t stand anyone seeing me with so much as my shirt off, let alone sprawled naked across the bed). Even so, the scenario is so grotesque and outlandish that I can feel myself flushing in horror at the thought of it. It’s also increasingly clear that I’ve misjudged the mood you’re in, despite not recognising whatever this current mood actually <em>is</em>. It feels like you’ve moved on without me and I’m struggling to catch up, like walking into a film halfway through and being uncertain of how to follow the script.</p><p>“Jesus,” I say faintly. “You wouldn’t <em>dare</em>.”</p><p>“Imagine his response,” you reply in an overly innocent way. “Seeing you so dishevelled and disorientated, completely insensate with pleasure. For <em>everyone</em> to see you like that, and to know that I was the one who’d done it to you. Which do you think you’d find the most humiliating? The fact he’d have pictures of you with your legs spread open, desperate for <em>me</em> – of all people – to make love to you? Or the evidence of how hopelessly aroused you were while I was doing it?”</p><p>“For God’s sake,” I manage to say. “You’re so warped.”</p><p>“Yes,” you reply calmly. “I dare say I am.” You give your fingers another twist, clearly enjoying the way I’m groaning then biting my lip as my cock spasms helplessly against my stomach. “Who knows, perhaps he’d even derive a certain satisfaction from seeing them? I always wondered if he might have a secret yearning in your direction. Something very repressed and pathetic, unable to find sensible expression.”</p><p>“You mean the way <em>you</em> did?” I snap. “Stop projecting.”</p><p>It’s not like this is the rudest thing I’ve told you today. It’s not even the rudest thing in the past hour. But either way it’s one rude comment too far, and as soon as the words have left my mouth I know I’ve blown it and there’s no way you’ll be letting me come anytime soon. As if to confirm this you deliver a light slap to the side of my leg – sufficiently gentle not to hurt, but hard enough to suggest annoyance – then slide your hand back upwards to stroke across my abdomen.</p><p>“Dearest Will,” you say. Your voice seems to have dropped a level; it’s so low and rumbling you sound like you’re purring. “Someday you will have to learn to stop provoking me.”</p><p>Your palm feels so warm and firm and is trailing close enough to my cock (which you completely ignore) to be outright tortuous: I give a stifled whine then finally admit defeat and hide my face in my arm. You make an amused noise at the sight of it before shifting round yourself, presumably so you can admire the spreading damp patch where my cock is leaking all over the sheets. “Look at the mess you’re making,” you say approvingly. “You’re loving this aren’t you? Displaying yourself to me. Flaunting your beauty. Showing how alluring and unique you are. You enjoy the fact I desire you so much: you think it gives you power over me.”</p><p>It’s tempting to tell you that it does, only I’m afraid this might be the last straw and would make you stop entirely. In fact it definitely would, and by now I’m so turned on there seems a genuine chance I might be able to come simply from feeling you fuck me. Anyway, it’s not like I really need to say it – we both know that it’s true. </p><p>“Not that I blame you,” you add in a gentler voice. “Beloved. <em>Mano meilė</em>. You’re powerful in numerous ways, but all of them require such <em>effort</em>. It’s exhausting, isn’t it Will? Not like this. This requires nothing more than simply lying back and looking beautiful, then watching while I debase myself at your feet.”</p><p>This time I just moan again in a way which won’t confirm it one way or the other. Then I screw my eyes closed and catch my breath, focussing all my energy on rocking against your hand as urgently as possible. I know you’ll appreciate this. Regardless of the context, one thing that’s always guaranteed to make you happy is when I drop any pretence at self-control and show how much I want you. Your breath now promptly speeds up, so I arch my back to encourage you: writhing, panting, then letting out an even deeper moan as you spread me open with both hands so you can spit onto my ass even harder than before.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” I say weakly. I feel like I might be blushing; there’s something humiliating about liking this so much and I’m sure you’re always able to tell. “Oh my God. Oh fuck.”</p><p>“That’s expressive, <em>mylimasis, </em>but not especially articulate.” You’re scraping your teeth against my leg now; I squirm uncomfortably, so you give the skin a tender lick of apology before promptly scraping me again even harder. “What exactly do you want? Let me hear you say it.”</p><p>“What – <em>ah</em> – do you think I want?” My legs are so far apart by now, I can only imagine how wanton and shameless it must look. It’s as if I’m exhibiting myself: like some sort of debauched, compliant creature who only wants to spread themselves open for you then beg you for your cock. “I want you to fuck me.”</p><p>“Do you?” you say softly. “Tell me how.”</p><p>I wonder how you’d react if I said I don’t know? To be honest I’m not sure that I do…I’m so frantic by now that my mind’s gone blank. In the end I can’t think of anything more inspiring than: “Hard.”</p><p>You don’t seem very impressed by this – to be fair, I can’t say I blame you – so just carry on sitting there while I lie underneath you and quiver with frustration. It’s obvious you’re enjoying it; you’re such a sadist sometimes, it’s like you can’t help yourself. Eventually I mutter something mangled (which is supposed to be ‘please’ but sounds more like I’m having a heart attack) and you finally take enough pity on me to begin kissing your way up my thigh, lapping up the trail of saliva you’ve left as you go. I promptly repeat the heart attack noise. I know you’re going to eat me out, yet being prepared for it does nothing to stop me losing control when I feel the first flick of your tongue as it starts to lick me open.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” I manage to say. Your tongue promptly swirls even harder, lapping and sucking with messy open-mouthed kisses like I’m something delectable you can’t get enough of. “<em>Fuck</em>…Hannibal, please. I can’t…”</p><p>Briefly I think I can feel you smiling against my skin. “What can’t you do, <em>mano meilė</em>?”</p><p>“I can’t come like that.” It’s so intense my eyes have started to widen; I need to pause for a second to gulp in a desperate gasp of air. “I want you to fuck me.”</p><p>“Patience,” you reply in the same soft voice. “I’ll do it soon. Just let me enjoy you like this for a little longer.”</p><p>I’m breathing so fast by now it’s like I’m hyperventilating, my ribcage pulsing with a rhythm of its own as my entire body grows damp and slick with a thin gloss of sweat. My cock is fucking <em>aching,</em> but while the sensation isn’t enough to get me there it also feels like too much: the warmth and slippery wetness, the fleshy slide of your tongue, or the way you’re forcing my legs apart to bury your face even deeper, sucking lavishly at the rim then using a teasing fingertip to coax it into loosening up for you. I gasp out your name and for a few seconds you pull back to look at me, spreading me open again with both hands then murmuring something rapturous to yourself in Italian. ‘<em>Please…</em>’ I try to say – but once more the words get swallowed in a breathy moan as your head drops back down, using your thumb and finger to prise me open before your tongue plunges deep between the gap you’ve made.</p><p>My entire spine snaps back, every muscle quivering and tightening as I practically vibrate my way off the bed. “<em>Fuck</em>,” I gasp out. “That’s…oh my God. Oh God. Oh fuck. <em>Fuck</em>.” You trail a finger down my cock in response and it’s like I feel the tremor of it running through my entire body, complementing the wet thrust of your tongue as it slides in and out of my ass. When I’m starting to get too overwhelmed you finally pause, although I’m only allowed a few seconds respite before the stimulation starts all over again: this time by replacing your tongue with two long fingers, already slippery with saliva and pre-come, which push in until they’re knuckle-deep and can brush against my prostate. Without any lube the stretch is <em>just </em>short of being painful and I cry out immediately as my whole body goes rigid. </p><p>“Oh <em>yes</em>,” I mutter under my breath. “Fuck, I like that. Hannibal…I really like it. It’s so good.<em>”</em></p><p>“How good?”</p><p>“Oh fuck, just…please don’t stop.” It’s like being impaled while still feeling insanely pleasurable, making me writhe around on your fingers as if I’m riding them.</p><p>“That’s it,” you say as I start to pick up a rhythm. “Good boy, that’s beautiful.” You lean further forward then press your face against the small of my back. “You are <em>not</em> to shower after this,” you say, your tone soft yet vaguely threatening. “I want my scent all over you: I want you to smell exactly like me.”</p><p>For a few seconds you let your hand go still, then wait until I’m on the verge of begging before starting to move it again; slowly at first, but gradually picking up speed until I’m gasping at the relentlessness of the pace and wildly bucking my hips as I fuck myself on your fingers. “That’s it, isn’t it?” you add as I make a desperate moaning noise. “<em>Mylimasis</em>. Is that the place you like? Right…<em>there</em>?”</p><p>By now you’ve draped yourself across my back, leaving me pinned by your weight and helpless to do anything except stay where I am and take it. I can feel your mouth pressing onto me, breath scalding hot against my throat, and as another finger works its way in I give a sharp cry then fling my head against your shoulder. You make a soothing sound as you twist them together, stroking and rubbing while your thumb massages around the taut, tender skin where you’re scissoring me open.</p><p>“Pay attention, my love,” you say, straight into my ear. “I asked you a question.”</p><p>I give a low moan then let my head tip further back. My cock is really throbbing now and when you kiss my throat I make an involuntary whining sound, helpless and faintly humiliated as I feel it spasm with an obvious trickle of pre-come. You hum with approval then wait a few more seconds before reaching up to give my hair a small tug. “I asked you a question, Will.”</p><p>For a few manic seconds I wonder what you’d do if I turned round and requested you to kindly fuck off. “Yes,” I manage to gasp. “<em>Yes</em>. You know it is.”</p><p>“Yes, I know…but I still like to hear you tell me.”</p><p>You pull your hand away as you’re speaking, waiting a few tormenting seconds before slamming back in as my hips give another jerk in an urgent, useless attempt to get some friction. My breath seems to be ripping out of me as I thrust against the long slide of your fingers, screwing my hands into the bedclothes then groaning even louder as my cock twitches violently like I’m about to come. Oh God, I <em>really</em> need it now. The urge for release is so intense it almost hurts, ratcheting higher every time your fingertips stroke across my prostate. I’m letting out the sort of noises I’ve never made with anyone except you: very urgent and deep-pitched, interspersed with breathy little moans and cries. It’s making me self-conscious, but when I bite my lip to stifle them you reach out to give my hair another tug.</p><p>“No,” you say. “I want to hear you. I want all of you; don’t you understand that by now? I want to see you, feel you, taste you. Are you going to you let me do that?” You lean down then slowly lick up a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. “How long do you think you could last like this?” you add softly. “Could you climax this way? Would you like us to try?”</p><p>I take advantage of the pause to draw a few hitching breaths, still twitching and shuddering from the intensity of it. Then I shake my head, partly because it’s true but also because I know it’s what you’ll want to hear. “No,” I say. “I need more than that. I need…I need you.”</p><p>“Good boy,” you reply in the same low voice. You pause yourself; supposedly to listen to me panting, but really so you can draw a few deep breaths of your own. It’s a trick you often use, and in this case is clearly because you’re so turned on from eating me out that you need a cooling-off period to make sure you don’t end up coming too quickly. The way you do it would be too subtle for most people to notice, but I always spot it immediately and it provides a satisfying flare of triumph that, despite the impassive exterior, you’re not <em>quite</em> in control as you seem.</p><p>“So…” you say finally. You give another audible sigh then press a kiss on the side of my throat. “To return to my original query: how hard?”</p><p>In theory this is extremely tame compared to the type of domination play you’re capable of, but in practice the frustrated discomfort is almost unbearable. “Oh my fucking God,” I say. “Can’t you just…”</p><p>You deliver a light slap against my thigh. “How hard, exactly?”</p><p>“As much as you want.” My own breath is really hitching by now; it makes me sound slightly feral. “As much as I can take.”</p><p>You repeat the same sighing sound then take hold of my cock so you can smear the pre-come around the head with your thumb. You’re leaning over me again now, your weight bearing down like a vice as I feel the thick hard line of your erection jabbing into my back. “That’s not very specific, is it beloved? You’re always able to take whatever I give you.”</p><p>While this exchange is clearly designed towards me begging you it seems you might have overdone it this time, because coherent speech has gone completely beyond me. There’s no way I’ll be summoning Pornhub-inspired declarations anytime soon. “I want <em>you</em>,” I’m finally able to say – which admittedly isn’t very imaginative but at least is sincere. Normally I’d describe a lot more than this, but the strain of seeing Jack has got to me and I’m past the point of being able to manage it. As a last resort I try to work a deliberately quivery tone into my voice, relying on how even a <em>hint</em> of me being distressed will usually make you back down. I’m not certain how successful I’ll be, but fortunately it seems that this time it’ll be enough for you because you promptly tug my head back to kiss me – very hungry and rough with your tongue stabbing into my mouth – before reaching towards the nightstand for some lube. I give a small sigh of relief then slump back onto the mattress and bury my face in my arm.</p><p>“Come here,” I hear you say.</p><p>I turn around, squinting blearily to see where I’m meant to go, and find that you’re arranging yourself against the headboard with your legs stretched out, in what (not to put too fine a point on it) is a clear invitation for me to sit on your cock and ride you. You give a distinctly sultry smile when you see me looking at you, but while I don’t need asking a second time I’m already getting the usual pangs of self-consciousness at how my enthusiasm is going to outweigh my technique. It’s hardly the first time we’ve done this, but the penetration’s so deep that I often struggle with this position and it’s hard to ignore the hovering sense of performance anxiety. Oh well, fuck it – it’s not like you’re going to care. Rather cautiously I now take hold of your cock in my hand, teeth slightly gritted as I prepare to lower myself onto it. The stretch is dauntingly large, and I’m clearly tenser than I realised because for a few moments it seems like the tight clench of muscle isn’t going to loosen up enough to take you. I make a frustrated noise, so you wrap your hands around my waist to help me: murmuring words of praise and encouragement until the resistance finally gives way and I’m tipping my head back and moaning as I feel the thick, blunt head start to force its way in. I wait a few seconds to adapt to the stretch then catch my lip between my teeth, slowly sinking down inch-by-inch until I’m finally sitting on your lap and your full length is buried inside me.</p><p>“Oh God,” I say helplessly. I’m soaked with sweat by now, my muscles aching and raw from what feels like hours of clenching. “Fuck…Hannibal. It’s so deep.”</p><p>My voice sounds embarrassingly wrecked, but it’s hard to manage anything better when the sensation is this intense. <em>‘Fuck’</em> I keep saying, <em>‘Oh fuck…fuck’</em> (because my language abilities have clearly collapsed now along with everything else). My thighs are throbbing with the strain of it but as I begin to move my hips I manage to hit the perfect angle for you to rub right up against my prostate. The initial sting made me lose my own erection but this immediately gets me hard again, leaving me quivering then gasping as my cock jerks with a flood of pre-come. Some of it drips down onto you so you quickly scoop it up with your fingers, tugging me backwards until I’m close enough for you to press them against my lips.</p><p>“Open your mouth, my love,” you say.</p><p>I obey immediately, licking your fingers clean then giving another soft whine at the sense of being able to taste myself. The sparks of pleasure have grown so intense it’s disguising any lingering discomfort, helping me to roll my hips then plunge down harder and faster as I try to find my rhythm. Beneath me I can hear the catch of your breath; can feel how tightly wound your muscles are as you fight to stay in control.</p><p>“Look at you,” you say, and you sound almost as wrecked as I do. “Look at this beautiful body.”</p><p>This makes me smile slightly, because in this instance ‘body’ is such an obvious euphemism for ‘ass’. You’ll never speak about me in such a vulgar way, but verbal delicacy doesn’t change the fact that watching my ‘body’ slide up and down your cock is guaranteed to drive you out of your mind. It’s why you’ve made me sit with my back to you: you want the best possible view. I moan loudly at the thought of it, rocking myself downwards just as you pivot upwards to give it to me in a series of rhythmic powerful thrusts that I can really feel. It’s like I’m being speared, the pleasure so enflamed it’s close to flirting with pain. Your hands are gliding across my back, a show of calmness and comfort to let me know you understand I’m struggling and are grateful I’m persisting through it. Even so, you must know that it’s not just for you. A part of me <em>loves</em> this – loves the crudeness and indecency of being fucked so thoroughly as my body gets pushed to its limit.</p><p>Behind me your thumb’s now massaging the slippery ring of muscle that’s stretched so tightly round your cock and it feels <em>incredible</em>: my head snaps backwards as my spine sways forward, using all my leverage to take what you’re giving me as hard and deep as possible. By this point I’m almost desperate to relieve the pressure and make myself come; I’m not sure I’ve ever been this hard in my life. Blindly I reach out to take hold of my cock, but before I can even get near it you dart out your hand to stop me. You actually make a growling sound as you do it (I promptly growl back even louder) before rearing yourself off the bed so you can twist my wrists together. Your hand’s so big you can grip them both at the same time, which means I’m now trapped in place and can’t even grind my hips against the mattress and get myself off that way. Your other hand is running up and down my thigh, although from the tender way you do it I can tell you’re pleased with my reaction.</p><p>“What the <em>hell</em>?” I manage to splutter out. “What are you doing?”</p><p>“What do you think I’m doing?” you reply. I repeat a version of the growling noise then for a few seconds completely lose control and start wrenching my arms in a frantic attempt to free myself. “Stop that,” you say. “Otherwise I’ll have to tie you to the bed.” You reach up with your other hand to give the back of my neck a light squeeze. “Perhaps I should do it anyway. Would you like that, Will? I might like it myself – to have you spread out for me, vulnerable and helpless.”</p><p>“Don’t you<em> dare</em>,” I snap, but this time there’s no reply. Instead you wait a few moments until you’re satisfied I’m not going to fight you off before letting go of my hands and laying back down. I pretend I’m going to play along, but as soon as you’re out of touching distance I promptly dive round again to jerk myself off – at which point you lose patience entirely and just hook both arms around my shoulders to flip me off you and onto the bed. I make a groan of protest. My skin’s so sensitive that even the pressure of the sheet feels too much, plus the sense of you pulling out my body feels wrong…a kind of empty, restless craving to be filled up again.</p><p>For a few seconds you look at me, still radiating control and with the same inscrutable expression on your face, before leaning forward to brush your lips along the edge of my jaw. “Not yet,” you say softly. “Remember what we agreed? Today your job is to make me happy.”</p><p>My voice is hoarse from all the panting; I clear my throat a few times then roll my eyes at you from beneath a tangle of hair. “<em>Actually</em>,” I say, “you looked pretty happy to me.”</p><p>“Perhaps.” You’re cupping my face now: your fingers, ghosting along my cheekbones, feel strangely delicate despite the firmness of the touch. “But you have already agreed to my proposal; it’s a little late now to change the conditions. And what makes me <em>especially</em> happy is when you give up control of your own pleasure and allow me to have it instead.”</p><p>I roughly jerk my face free which makes you smile in a rather feline way, rather like you’re fascinated by my attempt to resist you. “You know, your flashes of anger are immensely charming,” you say. “Perhaps I should allow you to simmer for a while simply to relish the spectacle of it.”</p><p>I repeat the growling noise and you give me a rather wolfish smile then lower you head to kiss me – tenderly, sincerely and on and on and on – before grabbing my hips to yank me upright onto my knees. I see it coming and attempt to roll away, only you move too quickly for me to properly react, darting out unnaturally fast like a snake or mantis. Your grip isn’t particularly tight, but while you’re giving me the leverage to struggle I know I don’t really want to.</p><p>You now stare at me with an unreadable expression for what feels like several minutes before you abruptly come back to life again and lean down to rub your face against mine – cheekbones, jawline, the bridge of my nose – the press a final kiss to my forehead. “Good,” you say. “Are you ready?”</p><p>“Of course,” I reply, and my voice sounds so raw and urgent. “I want this…I want<em> you</em>. I want to feel you come in me.”</p><p>By now I’m trembling so much it’s a struggle to stay upright so you end up having to wrap a hand around my throat to keep me still while the other curls across my hip. “That’s it,” you say tenderly. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.” As you’re speaking you take hold of your cock and begin to rub the soaking wet head against my hole, very slow and persistent. “Is this what you want? To have me inside you?”</p><p>I give a small hiss of impatience. “You know I do.”</p><p>“Deep inside you,” you repeat, like I haven’t even spoken. “It would mean you don’t entirely belong to yourself anymore; just for those few moments, you’ll belong to me instead. After all, what does it really mean to be <em>inside</em> someone?” There’s another pause, followed by a sting of your teeth against my throat. “Would you like me in your mind as well as your body?”</p><p>“<em>Yes</em>. I don’t care.”</p><p>"Don't you?" you say. "You're so vulnerable right now, my love. Letting me handle you like this: it shows a level of trustfulness towards me that, objectively speaking, is extremely ill-advised. Human bodies and human minds…they’re so delicate, Will. So apt to rend and tear. There’s a certain grace to it: how swiftly, simply, and beautifully they can be breached and broken apart. You understand that as well as I do, but you still say you don’t care. That you’re not afraid.” You pause again then bury your face in the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply as if trying to breathe me in. “Does that disturb you?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>You murmur a snatch of something rapturous in a foreign language then roughly tug my head back by the hair until my throat is exposed; for a few seconds I can feel the sharp edge of your cheekbone pressing against my own. “No? But you’re trembling beloved – why is that?”</p><p>“Oh God, why do you <em>think</em>?”</p><p>“Because you’re overwhelmed,” you say calmly. “Which is exactly what I intended you to be. It’s all about your <em>mind,</em> Will; even though it’s protesting so fiercely. You’re so astute and ingenious – so endlessly clever – yet your intellect’s abandoning you isn’t it? Instinct is taking over. All your autonomy and self-determination…they’re of no possible use to you now. And such a burden to you most of the time; you may as well give them to me. You know you can trust me as a suitable custodian. Then you won’t have to do anything at all. All-you’ll-have-to-do-is-let-go. You belong to me now, Will. <em>Me</em>, not Jack. Don’t ever forget that.”</p><p>As you’re speaking you’re pushing your cock against me, forcing forward until the tight ring of muscle gives way and you’re sinking your entire length inside me with a single hard thrust. I cry out with a noise I don’t think I’ve ever made before – something deep and visceral, almost animal-like in its intensity – as you seize my waist to drag my body back onto your cock as hard as humanly possible. Your muscles seem to be pulsing with the force of each thrust, but I’ve already been taken so thoroughly that I’m stretched wide open and it makes the movement incredibly smooth. My breath hitches into a ragged series of gasps, chest heaving unnaturally fast as I twist my face around and contort into increasingly painful angles to search out your mouth. I want to tell you I love you but somehow the words feel totally inadequate for what I’m feeling. It’s almost easier to trade in symbolism instead – emblems and images, what I’d do: <em>I'd wait for you. I'd fight for you. I'd feel pain for you. I’d kill for you</em>.</p><p>“Oh God,” I gasp out. “Yes. <em>Yes, </em>like that. Come on – harder. I want this, I want you to fuck me.”</p><p>You’re clinging to me so tightly I can barely move but it hardly matters anymore because you’re doing all the work for both of us. Instead I just listen to the noises I’m making, breathy, broken and desperate as I urge you to fuck me even harder (<em>please, please please</em>). You mutter my name under your breath then pull out nearly all the way: nudging my hair aside to kiss my neck then waiting a few moments before slamming back in with so much force I’m almost jolted against the wall and need to grip onto you to stay upright. I don’t care though: you know my body so well you can always gauge the perfect angle to thrust against my prostate and the sensation is phenomenal, like lights sparking in my head each time you move. It’s makes me want to stop you from coming so we could make it last all evening…not that I’ve sure how long it <em>has</em> lasted, because time has lost all normal meaning. It could be seconds or minutes, or even hours. Then I rock back against you as much as I can, my own hips working harder and faster as I do my best to counter each push of yours. I’m really going to ache with this tomorrow, but I don’t care about that either. I just keep chanting your name and telling you I love you, not only from how good it feels but because you’ve totally lost control of yourself and seeing you like that drives me out of my mind. There’s something almost primal in it: the destructive, predatory part of you which answers, then acknowledges, the echoing strain in me.</p><p>Above me you make a growling noise in your throat, tangling your fingers into my hair so you can jerk my face back. I immediately brace myself for a sting of teeth, aware of how you almost always bite me when you’re feeling this possessive. Only this time it doesn’t happen as you snap forward instead with another rough thrust, pushing me onto my knees so you can drape your body across my back. Your breath against my throat is so hot it’s like a brand and I can feel your arms on either side of my face, the muscles tense and quilted with barely repressed anger. From this angle I can’t see your expression, but I know if I could then it would be completely feral. There’d be a glimpse of the inhuman terrifying side of you, pulsing behind your eyes like a heartbeat in streaks of crimson and black. Utterly ferocious and uncontrolled, the same as a pledge of love.</p><p>“He can’t have you,” you say. You tone is low enough to resemble a hiss and confirms that the laidback response from earlier was hiding a far deeper layer of fury than I fully gave you credit for. “Never again. You. Are. Mine. Not Jack’s. You belong to <em>me</em>. Do you understand Will? If he comes near you a second time I will eat him alive. I will <em>kill him</em>.”</p><p>You’re so absorbed in your outrage it’s like you’ve forgotten you planned to kill him anyway. In another situation the incongruence would feel bizarre, but I’m too delirious by now to respond with anything more meaningful than a groaning sound. I’m getting so tight that it makes you feel huge inside me, almost too much to take. Oh God, it might be enough to make me come; just a few more seconds and it really might be enough. Just from the feeling of your cock in my ass…how is that even possible? From the way your hips are stuttering I can tell you’re also getting close, but even though I haven’t come myself I’m more concerned now with making sure you do. I want to watch you; I want to see it happen. To help you out I arch my back a bit more, thrusting against you with a force that’s almost brutal with how intense it is. Your response is to scrape your teeth across my neck, roughly dragging them downwards until finally settling in the curve of my shoulder. It doesn’t hurt, yet your posture is fierce enough to provoke a shocking image of how your jaws could snap down to rip out a chunk of flesh and muscle – perhaps even <em>eating</em> it – as for a few frenzied moments it requires every shred of self-restraint not to give into instinct and aggressively fight you off. As if sensing my tension, you eventually seem to gain control of yourself and close your mouth before you’ve had a chance to so much as graze the skin. My hands are scrabbling against the bedclothes, desperate for something to hold on to, so you finally cover them with your own then lock our fingers together.</p><p>“You know I’m yours,” I manage to pant out. I twist round far enough to kiss you, pulling your lower lip into my mouth then briefly gripping it between my teeth. Speaking is such an effort now but after a few more shaky breaths I’m able to add: “And if he does then I’ll help you kill him myself.”</p><p>Deep down I know I don’t really mean it. It’s just another type of performance – like the stagey, exaggerated way of begging you to fuck me – but right now it’s what you want to hear so I’ll still tell you anyway. And it works even better than expected, because as soon as I’ve said it your rhythm breaks and you give a loud gasp, quickly followed with the hot familiar flood of you pumping me full of your come. I gasp myself then buck up against you, determined to make it last for as long as I can. Oh God it’s good. It feels <em>so</em> good…how is that possible? No one has ever made my body respond the way that you can. Not even close.</p><p>You always stay hard for a while after you’ve come, so even once you’ve stopped moving I carry on rocking myself against your cock until the first sharp stabs of pleasure start to build in my stomach. I’m trying to tell you about it, but the words are getting mixed up: <em>I think I might…I’m going to…Oh God, I’m nearly</em>. You lean in like you’re about to kiss me, then seem to change your mind and stroke my lower lip instead to encourage me to open my mouth. I obey immediately, sucking your fingers then grazing them with my teeth while you tenderly nuzzle my hair from behind. You’re working your own hips now to help me to ride you and it feels so good I almost don’t want it to end. <em>Yes</em>, I keep chanting, <em>like that, yes, yes</em>. I can feel it starting as a series of deep contractions around your cock, but even though I haven’t touched my own there’s no doubt it’s going to be enough. For a few seconds I’m genuinely afraid I might breakdown from the intensity of it and need to bite my lip in an effort to stay in control.</p><p>“Oh <em>fuck</em>,” I say; I sound completely shocked, like I can’t quite believe it. “I’m…oh fuck, I’m going to come. <em>Hannibal</em>. Oh God, I’m coming, I’m coming…”</p><p>I let my head fall back on your shoulder, aware of how we seem to be breathing in unison – breathing for one another – as your chest covers my back in weight and warmth and I’m giving a frantic jolt then crying out as thick ropes of come begin spattering against the sheets. I’m gasping so loudly it nearly drowns out everything else, but I’m still vaguely aware of you murmuring words like ‘perfect’ and ‘beautiful’ as you cover my face and hair with kisses. This is excessive, but also predictable, because coming untouched around your cock is always guaranteed to send you into extravagant raptures of praise. Every single goddamn time – it’s actually pretty ridiculous. Anyone hearing you would think I’d solved the Enigma Code.</p><p>After a while I manage to stop wailing before all my muscles seem to crumple at the same time and I slump down onto the bed with a series of scratchy, laboured breaths. My body’s absurdly over-sensitive now, almost like a layer of skin’s been removed, and I’m slick and wet and fucked wide open in a way that should possibly feel degrading and yet…doesn’t. You take a few deep breaths yourself then give my neck a farewell kiss before bending down to lick up the stray trickles of semen on my thigh. The sensation is surprisingly arousing, but instead of pulling away you just keep on going; further and further upwards until I quiver and give another moan as I realise you’re letting it drip out your mouth so you can use your fingers to push it back inside me. </p><p>“Well, it would appear I gave you what you asked for,” you say languidly when you’ve finished. You make a satisfied sound then lean down again to press a kiss against the small of my back. “You should thank me.”</p><p>“Thank you Dr Lecter,” I reply in an overly serious voice. “<em>Grazie</em>.” If I had the energy I’d probably start laughing. Only you can talk about your come as if it’s goddamn Holy Water, generously bestowed on mere mortals by divine decree. It’s as if anything from your own body is automatically sacred; possibly I should just politely excuse myself and leave you and the damp patch alone together.</p><p>“I ought to have brought one of your plugs,” you add smugly. “That was rather remiss of me. You could have kept it inside you even longer.”</p><p>I swivel round and give you A Look. “Yes, it’s terribly disappointing,” I say solemnly. “Devastating, in fact. I’m not sure how I’m going to be able to cope.”</p><p>You begin to smile, then notice that I’m about to move and dart out your hand to stop me.  “No, stay as you are,” you say – which is a huge giveaway that you want to watch the rest leaking out. You absolutely <em>love</em> doing this; it almost borders on a fetish. Once you even got me to hold onto a shelf with my arms above my head, squirming with self-consciousness the entire time as it dripped onto the carpet before being asked to get on my knees to lick it up. You’ve been desperate ever since for me to do the same thing again, but I keep saying no. Not because I didn’t enjoy it though, but because I enjoyed it a bit too much – and the awareness of that feels vaguely humiliating.</p><p>I now decide to give you a few more minutes for you and your bodily fluids to spend a bit of Smug Time together before rolling onto my back so I can pull you on top of me. Your weight feels very comforting somehow. Considering you’re the most dangerous person I’ve ever met this is highly ironic, yet there’s no doubt your presence makes me feel safe. It’s as if nothing exists but you in those moments, and you’re the only thing that I need. Silently I run both palms across your chest, noting the softness of your skin above the hard ridge of muscle or the way I can feel your heartbeat beneath my fingertips which seems to pulse in time with my own. You smile down at me in an unusually tender way then press your lips against my forehead: very light, feathery touches, of the kind which always make me smile then catch my breath. As you see me do it your own smile broadens before you lower your head again to stroke your tongue across one of the grazes your teeth have made.</p><p>“Are you all right?” Your tone is so soft; I can almost feel your breath ruffling my hair. “Did I hurt you?”</p><p>“Yes,” I say. “Actually, you did. But it’s fine.” A line, faint as gossamer, promptly appears between your eyebrows and I reach up to smooth it away before trailing my finger down your cheek. “Honestly, it’s fine,” I add. “If I didn’t like it I’d have made you to stop. Anyway, I assume you feel better yourself?” You raise your eyebrows and I smirk a bit then tap the edge of your nose with my finger. I’m being playful now; something I often fall back on to avoid for difficult feelings. “I hope you’ve got that tantrum out of your system.”</p><p>“Tantrum?”</p><p>“Yes – <em>tantrum</em>. It means an uncontrolled outburst.” I lean further over then nudge our foreheads together. “Typical, I might add, of small annoying children.”</p><p>“I am perfectly aware of what it means.” You give me a rather pointed look. “As it happens, I could ask you the same thing.”</p><p>“I know,” I say. “And yes, I do. I needed that.” It’s worked, too: the stress of the day seems to be dissolving, melting into a drowsy sense of relaxation that’s left my limbs feeling molten and my eyes drifting shut.</p><p>You dip your head in agreement then wait a few seconds before adding, in a rare moment of honesty, “I think we both did.”</p><p>After that you don’t say anything else and neither do I. Instead we just lie there, gazing fixedly into each other’s eyes while you stroke my hair (and I wonder how much of that the neighbours must have heard) before you finally reach up to take hold of my face with both hands. It feels different to the affectionate, casual way you usually touch me – as if I’m something rare and fragile that rough handling would cause to break – but in that moment it doesn’t seem embarrassing or awkward. It just feels…natural. It feels right. In return I gently kiss the side of your wrist, thoughtful and careful with a tenderness that’s also untypical. We’re pressed together so closely, I feel like I’m aware of each point of contact from my body to yours. Each place our skin is touching; the tiny flickers of emotion every time we move.</p><p>“<em>Mylimasis</em>,” you say eventually. “Beloved. You were right all along.”</p><p>“About what?”</p><p>“Jack.” You practically spit out his name, like its taste in your mouth offends you. “His presence here alters the stakes considerably.”</p><p>“I know,” I say wearily. “I know it does.” It occurs to me that you haven’t asked if I meant what I said about killing him, although this isn’t especially surprising. You already know I didn’t: you’re not going to waste your time. Besides, as far as you’re concerned, convincing me to hurt Jack isn’t a problem to be overcome but an interesting challenge to be savoured. It’s something into which you can pour your considerable resources as you persuade me to change my mind – preferably before I’ve fully realised you’re doing it.</p><p>There’s another long pause; it’s so quiet I feel as if I could count your breaths. “I failed to anticipate my own reaction,” you finally add. “I did not expect to feel such <em>intense</em> resentment at having him near you.”</p><p>It’s rare for you to admit any kind of miscalculation, regardless how minor, and the confession of this one stirs immediately something in me because I know that I’m at least partly the cause. It’s clear that seeing Jack has re-activated your existing doubts about my commitment, and it’s a response that almost certainly wouldn’t have happened if I’d agreed to get married when you first asked. There’s something rather painful and ironic at how we both see him as a threat for completely opposite reasons: me because I’m afraid he could take you away from me, and you because you think he could lure me back to America.</p><p>“Hey,” I say quietly. I reach up then take hold of your hand in mine, slowly stroking my thumb across your knuckles. “You know I’m not going anywhere. You <em>know</em> that.”</p><p>You’ve closed your eyes again but as soon as I say this you snap them back open. “You mean like <em>you</em> know that I’m not about to be apprehended?” you say sharply. “Are we to take so much on faith Will?”</p><p>“That’s not…”</p><p>“You seem to have far lower standards for your own conviction than for mine.”</p><p>“It’s not the same.” I’m trying to sound firm, but having my own argument flung back in my face has thrown me off course (no doubt exactly as intended). “You can’t fully control whether or not you get caught. You <em>can’t</em>,” I add as I see you opening your mouth to object. “But staying together is a conscious decision. No one can change it but me.”</p><p>This time you don’t even bother to reply, instead just staring back at me in the same silent way as before. <em>That’s exactly my point, </em>the stare seems to be saying. <em>You might change your mind and betray me…just like you did the last time</em>. The unspoken reproach is obvious and it hits me a with a sudden surge of helplessness that I don’t know what to say to convince you – or, more to the point, myself – that this time I really mean it.</p><p>“It is what it is,” I finally reply. “We both knew this was never going to be easy. We’re just going to have to try and trust each other.”</p><p>As soon as I’ve said it I’m aware that this really isn’t good enough. It isn’t anywhere <em>near</em> good enough, I know that it’s not: such a simple, inadequate response to such a frighteningly complex question. But if nothing else it at least has the benefit of being true, because we <em>have </em>to place our trust in ourselves. What else can we possibly do? We need to do what we’ve always done. And the reason for that is because of another thing that’s also true: something which hasn’t changed since the day I first realised it all those years ago. Which is that you, for all your boldness and brilliance, are just as alone as I am – and that we’re both alone without each other.</p>
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<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter 17</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next day is unusually gloomy and overcast with a bitter welter of wind and a tattered sickly-looking sky that’s pock-marked in clouds the same livid grey as a bruise. It’s hardly the type of weather to inspire much optimism, and after a half-hearted attempt to make some coffee I take one look at it then crawl back in bed before curling into a determined ball and refusing to get out again. </p><p>“You’ll have to remove yourself at some point,” you say when you see me. “Or do you intend to stay there all day?”</p><p>This request is delivered to the top of my head, which is the only part of me currently visible. A few seconds later my hand joins it over the top of the covers and makes an irritable shooing gesture in your direction. “I suppose that means I’m being dismissed?” you ask. I growl something indecipherable and you reach out to give my hair a light tug. “How incredibly rude you are.”</p><p>I finally emerge from my dark hiding place (blinking like a cave dweller) and scrub my fingers across my face before scowling rather ferociously at you over the top of them. “What a look you’re giving me,” you add with obvious amusement. “It would quell a lump of granite.”  </p><p>“I’m <em>tired</em>. Go away.”</p><p>“Go where?”</p><p>I wave my hand at you in a repeat of the shooing gesture, at which point you catch hold of it then stroke your finger across the knuckles. “Anywhere but here,” I say. “Use your imagination; I’m sure you’ll think of something.”</p><p>“So I’m being thrown out of my own bedroom?”</p><p>“Since when was it <em>your</em> bedroom?”</p><p>“Since you technically declared the top floor to be yours.”</p><p>“So what?” I reply in my best Smug Bastard voice. “Possession is nine-tenths of the law.”</p><p>“Then you <em>are</em> throwing me out?”</p><p>“Looks that way.”</p><p>“That’s nice for me,” you say drily. “Not one of my finest moments either, I’ll admit. I suppose I shouldn’t really worry about Jack trying to make off with you, should I? You are such an unearthly horror he’d just bring you straight back again.”</p><p>“Yes,” I say with gloomy satisfaction. “I suppose I am a bit of a horror.”</p><p>“Indeed you are,” you reply with mock-seriousness. “But you are also <em>my</em> horror, so it doesn’t really matter.”</p><p>I pull the cover down far enough to roll my eyes at you. “That was <em>terrible</em>. Sentimental much? You should count yourself lucky I don’t turn round and vomit over you.”</p><p>“Agreed,” you say serenely. “It was abominable. It’s as I’ve told you before: there’s something about the sight of you sleeping in my bed – or, indeed, <em>our</em> bed – that brings out my most embarrassingly mawkish instincts. You should not be so severe on me. If anything, I deserve the utmost pity.”</p><p>I huff out a laugh and then give my face a final rub before struggling out of bed so I can grope around to locate yesterday’s shirt. You watch my progress with a faint smile, so I smile back then sit down and stare at my hands for a few seconds, consumed with a sudden urge for contact but unsure of the best way to ask for it. If I’m honest I feel like climbing onto your lap would be the most preferable thing, only I can’t quite bring myself to do something so mortifying and eventually settle for kneeling behind you instead so I can massage your shoulders. You lean into the touch immediately so I resettle myself until my legs are bracketing you on either side and you can rest against my chest. It’s rather endearing and reminds me how, even now, I’ll still catch myself feeling surprised at how well you respond to being touched with gentleness. I’d always expected you to grow impatient or irritated by it and demand to be handled more roughly, but you really don’t. If anything, it’s the opposite; just one of several wrong assumptions I’ve made about you over the years.</p><p>“So how are you feeling?” I eventually ask. “Your muscles seem tense. Much more than usual.”</p><p>“You sound surprised.”</p><p>I shrug, despite the fact you can’t see me, then tug your collar down to give me better access to your shoulders. “I guess I am,” I say. “It’s hard to imagine you being on edge. You always seem…I don’t know. So <em>calm</em>. Like nothing ever fazes you.”</p><p>“And yet you spending so much time with Jack was extremely tense,” you reply, elegantly flexing your neck. “See how deceiving appearances can be?”</p><p>I go still for a few seconds then give you a nudge with my forehead. “Don’t say that. It makes it sound like you don’t trust me.”</p><p>“It is not a matter of trusting you.”</p><p>“Then what is it?”</p><p>“It is simply an observation. I disliked Jack having an opportunity to be alone with you.”</p><p>“Yes…I know,” I say. “But it was better that way.” And then, because this is such an obvious set-up to be contradicted: “At least, it was better from my point of view.” This time you don’t reply at all, instead just leaning backwards until your head is resting against my shoulder. It’s such a small gesture, yet somehow feels extremely pensive – and therefore extremely out of character. “Hey,” I say gently. “What’s the matter?”</p><p>“Nothing at all,” you reply without opening your eyes. “I’m just happy that you’re here.”</p><p>I briefly go quiet myself, surprised how moved I am by this simple declaration, then lean down to press my lips against your forehead. “Same,” I say. Your normally sombre face promptly arranges itself into a smile and I smile too then run both palms along your shoulders and down your arms. “Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’ve gone all floppy.”</p><p>“It’s because I feel content. Like a cat.”</p><p>“Actually, it reminds me of that time you got tasered.”</p><p>You make an amused sound then open your eyes. “At least we don’t need to worry about my excess sentimentality,” you say. “You can always be relied upon to inject a bit of realism.”</p><p>I smile again, then gently push you back upright so I can resume massaging your shoulders. “Speaking of realism,” I add. “Here’s some more for you: I’ve just realised our rent’s due.”</p><p>“I know it is. I’ll take it myself this afternoon.”</p><p>“No, you stay here – I’ll take it.”</p><p>“You will not,” you say firmly. “Matteo has now joined the dubious company of Jack: I’m not at all happy with how he interacts with you.”</p><p>“Tough,” I say, deliberately squeezing your shoulder to emphasise the point. “Because I’m not happy with the way he talks about <em>you</em>. Anyway, you’re over-reacting. He’s never been inappropriate with me.”</p><p>“The way he looks at you is inappropriate.”</p><p>“What does that even mean? He looks at you the same way. Plus he’s always asking about you. Every time I’ve been it’s the same: <em>How is your friend today? What is he doing</em>?” I pause in pummelling your shoulders then give your hair a light tug. “He seems to like you a lot more than he does me.”</p><p>“Oh? Are we rivals then?”</p><p>“Seems that way. Do you want to fight me for him?”</p><p>“It’s an extremely tempting offer,” you say. “But no. You can have him all to yourself – as long as it’s from a distance. However, that doesn’t alter my determination to pay the rent on my own.”</p><p>“Yes, but…”</p><p>“If anything I am doing you a favour,” you add smugly. “He can lecture me instead of you over its lateness.”</p><p>You sound very pleased with yourself and I can’t help giving a small snort at the image of Matteo earnestly attempting (and spectacularly failing) to pull this off. Of course this doesn’t change the fact that there’s <em>no way</em> I’m letting you go yourself, but the thought of the arguments required to achieve this are already making me tired and I’m not sure I’ve got the energy for it. In the end I opt for the coward’s way out and stop rubbing your shoulders so I can drape myself across your back instead then press my face against yours. You immediately reach up to tangle your fingers into my hair.</p><p>“Let’s talk about it later,” I say. “We don’t have to decide right now.”</p><p>“Of course, there is also a third option,” you add, almost lazily. “Which is that you relax your rule about never targeting acquaintances and we pay him a visit that is entirely unrelated to the paying of rent.”</p><p>“Absolutely not,” I say. I sound almost comically pompous, as if I think I’m your dad (although honestly, God knows what <em>he</em> must have sounded like). “We’ve been through this. And it was a bad idea even before Jack turned up.”</p><p>“Perhaps it is,” you reply with obvious relish. “Yet some people are so fatally compromised in their capacity to live well. People just like Matteo. So coarse and inelegant – so sadly unrefined – that one wonders how they have managed to stumble and blunder along in the world for so long as they have. Removing them from it is almost a kindness. An act of mercy, one might say.”</p><p>“Actually, I don’t think anyone would say that.”</p><p>You turn round far enough to give me a faint smirk. “But I just have, <em>mylimasis</em>. Our moralists, after all, show significant arrogance in attempting to define the principles of mercy. Consider doctors for example…”</p><p>“Like you.”</p><p>“Like me.” As I watch your faint smirk grows ever-so-slightly broader. “Consider doctors who save lives and refer to being in possession of a ‘god complex’ when doing so. Is it all that different to play at God by saving lives as it to play at God by ending them?”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid, of course it’s different. Although I can think of one commonality: in fact you just said it yourself.” I finally give into temptation and reach down to deliver a sharp prod to your shoulder blade. “<em>A</em><em>rrogance</em>. Being so convinced of your own superiority that you underestimate how anything could go wrong.”</p><p>“Well, here we are philosophising,” you reply briskly. “And yet actions, as they say, speak far louder than words. Namely that the absence of Jack appears to be a common denominator to several of our current problems.”</p><p>As predicted, it seems this entire conversation has now gone round full circle: I sigh rather fretfully then bury my face into your neck. “I know it is,” I say. “You’ve made that point already; you’ve made it a lot. I’d even go so far as to say you’ve <em>laboured</em> it. And unlike you I’m not wearing my god complex, which means I’m not committing to anything that might risk you getting caught.”</p><p>Of course there’s no way you’ll be satisfied with such a curt response, but while I know this isn’t the last I’ll hear about it, at least you seem to understand that right now I’m past the point of further discussion. Instead, you obediently fall silent (for once) then allow me to slump against you without making any more attempts to argue. “Look at you,” you say once a few more minutes have passed and I’ve shown no signs of getting up again. “My poor boy. How exhausted you are.”</p><p>Considering how much sex we had yesterday I’m fully expecting a smug observation about your personal role in wearing me out. In the end you don’t, although from the expression on your face you’re definitely <em>thinking</em> it: I give you another prod to show I’m on to you, then yawn so hard I nearly dislocate my jaw before rolling myself off your back so I can roll beneath the covers instead. “You can stay if you like,” I add when I notice you’re about to move. “I revoke the previous throwing-out.”</p><p>You smile again then give my hair an affectionate ruffle, but by now I’m getting so tired I’m barely even aware of it and within a matter of minutes have pretty much passed out. I’m hoping I might wake up feeling better, but while the nap starts off soothing it quickly descends into something more restless that’s filled with images of shrieking squad cars and tattered crime scene tape. I finally jolt myself awake again an hour later and have a few moments of anxious confusion before launching myself across the bed to grab my phone. I do this in a rather guilty way, like I’m committing some sort of crime by looking at it, but when I finally bring myself to check the screen it’s reassuringly blank and clear. No calls. No messages. No sign of life from Jack. I stare at it a little longer like I can’t believe my luck then replace it on the nightstand and roll back over to gaze at the ceiling. My relief is obvious, yet also completely pointless, because I know this silence is only a delay and not a reprieve. There’s no doubt he’ll be in touch eventually.</p><p>As thoughts go this isn’t a particularly pleasant one and I now find myself staring aimlessly into space as I brood about it, frowning away while gnawing my thumbnail, before finally rolling over again to retrieve my glasses. I’ve no idea where they ended up last night, but you must have found them eventually because they’re now safely back on the nightstand. In fact by this point the whole process of losing-and-returning has evolved into a full scale ritual, in which I’ll manage to misplace them during the evening and you’ll reliably find them again then return them while I’m asleep. Recently you’ve added a new variation to the routine by arranging them in a deliberately stupid way whenever you bring them back – this time hooked around the top of the lamp with the switch acting in place of a nose. I suppose you think this is entertaining, but even though it’s not (at all) it never fails to make me smile. With anyone else I’d just find it annoying, but it’s so rare for you to make intimate gestures that their charm is automatically amplified whenever you bother to try one.</p><p>Your own side of the bed is empty and, judging from the coolness of the sheets, has been that way for a while. Most likely you’ll be in the kitchen: I strain my ears to confirm this and sure enough hear a faint clatter of porcelain, followed by the sound of you whistling. The first noise is expected but the second is unusual, because you’ll almost do this if you think there’s a chance you’ll be overheard. I suspect your reluctance stems from a belief that it’s vulgar or something like that, but I’ll never understand why you’re self-conscious about it because you’re undoubtedly the best whistler I’ve ever heard. I mean you <em>really</em> are. You can do vibrato, staccato and long lingering notes which seem to last forever, and you’ll always avoid the tuneless, absent-minded melodies favoured by the typical whistler in place of full-on recitals of classical music. Today you’re attempting Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria so I wait with interest to see if you’ll be able to hit the F major (you do, although clearly not to your satisfaction because you briefly go quiet for a few seconds before starting the entire section again).</p><p>I smile to myself at the sound of it then pull on one of your robes and tiptoe down to the kitchen doorway, pausing for a few seconds with my fingers on the handle so I can admire you in private before walking in. This is accomplished in a series of stealthy glances and, even as I’m doing it, I’m awkwardly aware of how hard it is to admit to myself that it’s only because I find you physically attractive. It always seems easier to pretend that I’m predominantly drawn to your mind and personality: that the appeal is something lofty and intellectual, belonging more to the brain than the body. But it’s there all the same and is impossible and pointless to deny, because there’s no doubt that you’re <em>beautiful</em> – even though this isn’t an epithet that’s typically applied to male attractiveness, and which shouldn’t even be true at all given that your component parts don’t really work in isolation. You have too many slants and sharp angles: all glacial skin, chiselled juts of bone, and features that are as planed and fleshless as a slab of alpine rock.  Even so, when combined together, they still create something undeniably striking.</p><p>This silent staring continues a while longer until it occurs to me (too late) that I’ve now crossed the line of respectful appreciation and am instead doing a convincing imitation of a creepy sex pest. Then I open my mouth to announce my presence, only to have you save me the trouble by saying “Hello Will,” without even turning round.</p><p>I feel myself flush slightly, resentful of being caught in the act. “How’d you know I was there?”</p><p>“I can smell you of course,” you reply. “I apologise if you were trying to ambush me and I ruined your plans.” You finally turn round then give me a faint smirk. “Feel free to go out and come in again if you wish, and I will pretend to be startled by your unexpected arrival.”</p><p>I start to smile then up walk up behind you so I can press my face between your shoulder blades; your skin feels very warm through the thin material of your shirt. “Oh well,” I say. “I’ll get you next time.”  </p><p>“Of that I have no doubt at all.” You put down the coffee grinder then reach round to run your fingers through my hair, gently tugging at the ends in a gesture that’s intimate yet casual. I promptly lean into the touch (because getting caressed like this is always enjoyable), then try and fail to resist the temptation to whistle the last few bars of the aria (because despite my best efforts, it’s sometimes impossible not to be a massive dick to you).</p><p>“<em>Eccellente</em>,” you reply. You’re smiling as you say it, although I can still tell you’re annoyed at being overheard. “I didn’t know you could whistle.”</p><p>“I’ve owned dogs. Of course I can whistle.”</p><p>“But not so melodiously. That hairy pack of yours could hardly have appreciated such a precise pitch.”</p><p>I give you a nudge between your shoulders. “Don’t call them a hair…”</p><p>“Are you also able to sing?” you ask. Your ability to conceal your basic contempt for dogs varies considerably from moment to the next; clearly today is one those times where you’re less inclined to make the effort to hide it. “I’m curious.”</p><p>“No,” I say sulkily.</p><p>“I’m not sure whether to believe you. I suspect you probably <em>can</em> but have either never tried or are simply reluctant to admit it. I imagine you as a tenor; possibly a baritone.”</p><p>“So I’m an opera singer now?”</p><p>“A tenor is just a vocal range. It doesn’t denote opera.”</p><p>“Fair enough,” I say. I press my forehead against your back at assorted angles, trying and failing to find a spot that doesn’t have a ridge of bone. “The answer’s still no. What about you?”</p><p>“It depends,” you say thoughtfully. “How would you define ‘can’? If the standard is remaining in tune then the answer is yes, although admittedly in a lower range – I would not succeed in reaching much above a middle C. But if you mean can I sing with any kind of proficiency, then I would confess such a talent is beyond me.”</p><p>“So you’re a bass?” Privately I smile again: only you would interpret such a simple query in terms of classically trained professional standards. “That figures. You have such a deep speaking voice.”</p><p>“Not necessarily. Speaking tone does not reliably associate with singing capacity.”</p><p>“So what makes you think I’d be a tenor?”</p><p>“Because I have heard you humming,” you say. “You can reach a high C with very little trouble.”</p><p>Even though this makes me laugh, I’m still struck by the forensic levels of attention you seem to pay to whatever I’m doing – even something so pointless as humming in the shower. Once I’d have found it unnerving to be the focus of such intense interest, but now it just seems endearing; something to make me feel valued and appreciated.</p><p>“I like to see you laughing,” you say fondly. “You did it so rarely in the past, Will; so serious, all the time. Hearing it now gives me a similar satisfaction as listening to music.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?”</p><p>“Yes: because it shows me you’re happy.” For a few seconds you take hold of my hand, lightly tracing your fingers across the wrist. “Nevertheless, your amusement leaves me undeterred. I want to hear you sing sometime.”</p><p>“No,” I tell you. “No way.” You give an exaggerated sigh and I nudge you a few more times with my forehead. “It’s still pretty early,” I add. “Not even lunch time. Come back to bed.”</p><p>“You have only this moment got out of bed. And it is not so early as all that; Giulietta will be here soon.”</p><p>You look rather solemn when you say this, although I can’t help feeling you’re just being awkward for the sake of it. Anyway, it’s rare for me to initiate things so it’s not hard to believe that you’re secretly pleased at how I’m taking the lead for once. I decide to put this theory to the test, and promptly discover that you’re <em>so</em> pleased you’re even content to let me drag you upstairs by the hand (complete with officious little tugs when I feel you’re not moving fast enough, almost like you’re a naughty toddler). Once we’re in the bedroom I push you down then scrabble away at your clothes while you just sit there with a look of amused contentment on your face. It’s obvious the roughness doesn’t bother you, and the contrast with how I react in similar circumstances makes me think how different our tolerance is for being touched. I’m a bit more cat-like (rapturous for affection, but only on my terms and liable to lash out in irritation when it goes on too long) whereas you’re more like a dog in your limitless ability to absorb whatever admiration is on offer. Although admittedly the analogy pretty much collapses after that, because in general personality types almost the total opposite is true. It reminds me a bit of an old joke postcard my dad once sent me: <em>A dog looks at the humans in its life and thinks “These guys are amazing! They feed me, love me, and give me a home. They must be gods!” A cat looks at its owners and thinks the same, only its conclusions are different. A cat thinks: “<span class="u">I</span> must be a god.”</em></p><p>I now glance down at you (currently wearing your favourite ‘I must be a God’ expression) and feel a sudden wave of affection for how arrogant and absurd you are – quickly followed by a wave of guilt at how my previous plan to be considerate only lasted a few days before Jack arrived and fucked everything up. Although, on the plus side, this seems as good a time as any to do something about it. I smile at you rather fondly then lean down to press a kiss on the tip of your nose (and which, as gestures go, is sufficiently ridiculous to make you start smiling too).</p><p>“Just stay there,” I say. “And behave yourself for once.”</p><p>You obediently lie back against the pillow and close your eyes. “What an outrageous charge,” you say leisurely. “I am always exceptionally well-behaved.”</p><p>Even for you this is excessive bullshit: I give a loud, sarcastic snort then watch as your smile grows a little bit wider. “I suppose that signals disagreement?” you say. “Perhaps I ought to defend myself, but an argument would almost certainly ensue. I shall hide behind the Fifth Amendment instead and let my silence speak for itself.”</p><p>“Yes Dr Lecter: you do that.”</p><p>“I assure you I intend to.”</p><p>“Good. And when you’ve finished doing that you can turn yourself over. I want you on your front.”</p><p>You obey almost straight away, so I kiss your neck as a reward then reach across to the nightstand to retrieve a bottle of massage oil. The lid has got clogged since we last used it, but I finally manage to get it open and drizzle some into my palms, rubbing them together to warm it up before slowly sliding across your shoulders. I deliberately take my time: alternating short strokes with long glides, pushing in my thumbs to find your tense spots, then gathering up the pools of oil to rub it up and down again. It feels incredibly sumptuous, the fragrance an enticing blend of spices and cloves with a texture that’s silkily smooth without being greasy. It’s also been ages since I’ve last bothered to do this, and the awareness makes me feel guilty all over again for neglecting you when I know how much you like it. Your back now arches appreciatively at the touch so I press down even harder, firmly swiping at your muscles while enjoying the way I feel them flex beneath my fingers. In fact by this point I’m pretty desperate to just fling you down and fuck you senseless, but it’s always so hard to get you to do what you’re asked that I know it's going to need a bit of planning in advance. It’s not that you don’t enjoy it, because I know that you do, and as far as the dynamic goes you never seem to care that much who goes on top. It’s more a case that your instinct is to take charge of every possible scenario – which, when combined with your crazy possessiveness, means I’m far more likely to be the one who gets flung down than you are.</p><p>Beneath me you’re now starting to shift again (right on cue) and I put a hand on your waist to keep you still. “Look at you,” I say fondly. “Pretending to be passive; it’s <em>almost </em>convincing.”</p><p>You hum with agreement so I push down a little harder, applying more and more of my weight until you’re being pressed against the mattress and can feel my own erection digging into your leg. Then I run my palm rather idly across your shoulders, pausing every so often to pepper your throat with kisses as I plot out possible positions. Usually the easiest way is to get you up against a wall, but that doesn’t feel tender enough for my current mood. Hands and knees is also no good: you’d do it if I asked, but I know you don’t really like it and it’s impossible for me to enjoy something if you’re not enjoying it too. Me on my back won’t work either…I made that mistake a few weeks ago after asking you to ride me and ended up getting pinned to the bed with my wrists held above my head. Eventually I decide it’ll be easier if I keep you lying down, otherwise you’ll start darting about and be almost impossible to deal with. In fact you already look like you’re on the verge of getting up. I put my hand on your leg again to stop you, smirking slightly at the urge to order ‘Stay’ in true dog-owner style. Oh God, you <em>are</em> going to move, I can tell.</p><p>“Stop it,” I say in amusement. I lean further downwards, letting my cheek rest against your hair as my hands slip around your chest for a quick exploration: the flat, hard muscles of your abdomen, the razor-sharp slices of hip bone. “You’re impossible, do you know that? Just calm down.”</p><p>You obediently go still almost straight away, although I’m not convinced how long it’ll last. To help persuade you I stroke across the length of your spine, slowly caressing lower and lower until my hand’s sliding down between your legs. You’re already so drenched and glistening from all the oil…oh God, it’s going to feel <em>amazing</em>: I’m getting a lurid fantasy of holding you down on the bed then fingering you until you’re out of your mind and desperate to have me fuck you. Unfortunately I also know your self-control’s too strong to waste time attempting this, so I rub the tip of my finger in teasing circles instead, gently stoking without ever pushing in until you’re starting to gasp and arch your back against my hand. I’m planning to make you wait a bit longer for it, but you’re so slippery from all the oil that the smallest jerk of your hips ends up being enough to send my finger plunging knuckle-deep inside you. I give a small groan at the sensation then lean down to kiss the back of your neck.</p><p>“That’s it,” I say softly. “Do you like that? Does it feel good?”</p><p>The low gasps rumbling through your chest suggest it does, so I add a second finger then crook them upwards, mirroring the same technique I’ve learnt from you. The noises you’re making are so sensuous I’m getting harder from the sound of them, spurring me to twist my wrist into increasingly painful angles just so I can find your prostate and get you to make them again. With my other hand I do my best to spread you open, trying to keep you still to get a better view of my fingers as they slide in and out of your ass. Oh fuck, you take it <em>so</em> well: the tight, slippery heat of your body feels incredible and seeing the way you thrust against my hand is driving me wild. I’m so turned on I’m leaving smears of pre-come against your skin whenever I press against you.</p><p>Your face is only a few inches from mine, but right now that seems like miles away so I drape myself across your shoulder to nudge your mouth open, gently licking into it then letting out a soft moan as I feel our tongues slide together. I like kissing you <em>so</em> much: I like the noises we both make, the way we pull apart to gaze at one another, or how you’ll stroke my face then pause to run your fingers through my hair. They’re the sort of kisses that only happen from pure desire. The kind I remember later with a catch of breath and a quickened pulse, just recalling how <em>that</em> was a moment we made together and how it was beautiful.</p><p><em>I love you</em>, I think fervently. <em>I love you, I love you</em>. You’re breathing so fast and your skin’s so warm…I hold you tight to my chest then feel you shiver against me and it’s <em>perfect</em>. I’d like to keep on kissing you for longer – for hours, if I could – but I don’t have the patience to wait anymore and tug you backwards instead, trying to get you to lie on your side so I can reach round to take hold of your cock. Promptly I feel my own breath hitch. “Oh fuck,” I say. “You’re <em>so</em> hard. Jesus. You really want it don’t you?”</p><p>I’m not expecting you to reply. You almost never admit to wanting things. You’ll just find ways to show it instead: either with looks and gestures, or with swooningly elaborate plans which ensure your needs always end up being met without you ever having to express what they are. I playfully nip at you with my teeth to show I’m onto you then lean round a little further so I can use my thumb to slowly smear your pre-come round the head of your cock. It’s almost impossible to stay in control when you’re lying against me like this: beautiful and available and <em>mine</em>.</p><p>“You’re desperate to get this in me aren’t you?” I say, straight into your ear. “You always act like you’re above it; like you think you’re better than the rest of us.” Your breath catches loudly but you still don’t reply. “I want you to admit it,” I add. “Say it out loud. If you do I’ll give you what you want.”</p><p>“I admit it,” you say promptly.</p><p>“What do you admit? Be specific.”</p><p>“I admit that I am no better than anyone else.”</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And that I am just as base and dissolute as the rest of you.”</p><p>I huff out a laugh then begin to kiss your neck again. “Good,” I say. “Then I guess you won’t mind proving it, will you?”</p><p>Your movement seems to be stuttering slightly by now; it’s as if you can’t decide whether you most want to rock downwards into my hand or push upwards to where my fingers are exploring your ass. I lean further back again to get a better view, letting out another groan as you tightly clench down like you’re trying to keep them buried deeper inside you. It’s intensely erotic and reminds me of how much you always like to have me in positions that let you watch yourself thrusting into my body. Not that I can blame you…I’d quite like to see it myself. “One day I want you to film me,” I hear myself blurting out. “I want to see what I look like when you’re fucking me.”</p><p>Your breath promptly catches even louder than before. “You look perfect,” you say. “You always take it so beautifully. And yes, I would <em>love</em> to film you – I think you’d enjoy watching yourself. Although I do have one condition of my own.”</p><p>This makes me smile; it’s like there’s no possible situation where you won’t find a chance to be demanding. “What’s that?” I ask.</p><p>You arch your back again, all loose-limbed elegance and easy grace. “I would want to have you lying in my arms while it was playing,” you reply. “And I would want you to describe <em>exactly</em> how it made you feel to see it.”</p><p>I sigh myself at the thought of it then give my fingers another twist. “You mean so <em>you</em> could see how hard it made me get,” I say. “How much it was turning me on to watch my ass getting pounded with this huge cock?” I’m pushing things a bit far now – I know this is much too vulgar for you – but I’m so keyed up I can’t quite stop myself. “This is driving you crazy, isn’t it,” I add. “You want to fuck me and you can’t.”</p><p>You nod with agreement, clearly past the point of being able to hide it, then empty your lungs in a long exhale before twisting round to search out my mouth for another kiss. It’s passionate and almost painful in the hungry scrape of teeth and stabbing tongues, only parting for a few seconds to breathe before clashing back together. The sensation is electrifying and I moan loudly and shamelessly as I feel my cock give another violent spasm against your thigh. Even so, when you flip yourself over to pull me on top of you I quickly grab your arms to make you stop.</p><p>“No,” I say sharply. “What did I tell you about waiting? Otherwise I’ll leave you here and finish off without you.”</p><p>You make an impatient sound between your teeth then bury your face in my hair like you’re trying to breathe me in. Your hands are still gripping onto me, but when you show no signs of letting go I give my own hiss of annoyance and wrench myself backwards to force you off. You land neatly next to me and for a few seconds look genuinely surprised before your face shuts down with an eerie, blank intensity that borders on frightening. There’s a certain glamour and ferocity to it that’s only <em>just</em> concealed below the surface – hunger and fierceness exuding from every coil of muscle and rasp of breath – and I simply stare back, privately consumed by a dizzily powerful sense that in my whole life I’ve never wanted something, <em>anything</em>, as much as I want you.</p><p>“Lie down,” I say, refusing to be intimidated by the look. It’s a similar tone that I’d use with the dogs: calm but with a hint of firmness that’s unmistakable. “<em>Now</em>.”</p><p>Your eyes flash in response, and a wary part of my brain immediately whispers that the situation is becoming too risky; that I’m goading someone incredibly dangerous who’s clearly on the edge of losing control and is strong enough to injure me if they wanted to. It’s rather like having a tiger by the tail, yet despite the initial flash of fear I know you won’t do anything to hurt me. Even so, the rejection has clearly triggered you and given the context of the past few days it’s hard not to feel guilty at my poor timing. For a few seconds I catch your eye in a silent apology then lean forwards to gently push you onto the bed. The contact itself is brief, yet it’s obvious the sensation of my skin against yours has a calming effect because this time you lie very patiently without making any attempt to argue.</p><p>I kneel over you and place a steadying palm on your forehead while gently stroking your face with my other hand. The movement is deliberately soothing, although if I’m honest it’s as much for myself as for you. Glimpses of the fierce, predatory parts of you are always guaranteed to do this, creating a passionate explosion of emotions in me that even now I still struggle to process. In fact the frenzy of it all is making me hesitate, forcing myself to draw some deep breaths in a desperate attempt to calm down. I’m concerned that if I get too carried away I might end up hurting you, despite the fact it’s hardly realistic because I don’t think I could hurt you even if I wanted to. It’s one of the reasons there’d be no point trying BDSM because I know you don't feel pain the way ordinary people do. In this respect I'm always careful to think <em>ordinary</em> rather than <em>normal,</em> because it implies that what you really are is extraordinary rather than abnormal; just like how some of your behaviour is off-the-charts psychopathic, yet I can't ever think of you as an actual psychopath. Not that I have the right word for what you are. I’ve never had one. You’re just…you.</p><p>When I finally glance up I can see that you’re watching me. “<em>Mylimasis</em>,” you say quietly. “It’s all right, my love. Take your time.”</p><p>Your tone is unusually tender. You can probably tell I’ve freaked myself out – or, more the point, freaked us both out – although it’s safe to say that you like it. Any semblance of me losing control never fails to delight you: I could wind up hurting you for real, even hurting you badly, and you’d probably like that too. I’ve admittedly come close to it though, because sometimes I can be <em>really</em> rough with you. I’ll bite and scratch or shove you up against the wall, sometimes hard enough to leave actual bruises. Only recently I gave you one which lingered on for several days, highlighting a single sharp cheekbone like a duelling scar. The sight filled me with a genuine sense of remorse, yet your own satisfaction was obvious and it was impossible to ignore the way you’d sensuously trace your fingers across it (sometimes idly, sometimes with clear deliberation) before your eyes calmly swivelled in my direction. Even so, you’ll never do the same thing to me without permission. It’s yet another thing we don’t discuss, but I can still sense it’s a boundary you’ve set for yourself after injuring me so badly in the past.</p><p>Thinking about this is making me sad, which seems wrong. I shouldn’t be sad right now. I take a shaky breath instead then slide down behind you to kiss the back of your neck, shifting my hips until I have enough room to move without needing to let go of you. Normally I’d take hold of my cock to get the angle right but I’m so hard by now that I can line up and push in without even having to use my hand.  Oh God, the tightness is going to give way any second now…any second.</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” I say breathily.</p><p>The oil makes everything slippery smooth and when I slide a palm across your chest I can feel your heartbeat beneath my fingertips. I’m trying to take things slow and make it last but I can’t, I know I can’t – how can I? The self-control is beyond me: you’re rocking yourself backwards, trying to push me deeper inside you, and it’s impossible not to respond. My cock feels like it’s getting squeezed from how strong your muscles are as you clench round me; if I let myself I could easily come right now. Then I swivel my hips and speed up the pace, grinding against you so hard and fast I’m briefly worried I might fuck you into the wall and have to protectively cradle your head to shield it from the impact.</p><p>“I love you,” I mutter against your skin. “<em>I love you</em>.” And I do. So much so that I can’t process anything beyond it: urgent and desperate, and so in love I can barely think. “You’re mine. <em>Mine</em>. Do you understand?”</p><p>“Yours,” you say, reaching round to skim your hand against my leg. “Always.”</p><p>Your voice sounds so intense that any remaining shreds of my self-restraint instantly start to crumble. I cry out again, arching myself up against you with a passion that’s almost brutal in its sincerity. “If you ever so much as <em>look</em> at anyone else I’ll give you so much hell,” I say, and this time my voice is close to a snarl. “I won’t share you with anyone.”</p><p>You murmur your agreement then seize hold of my hand to knot our fingers together. It’s clear how much you mean it, yet somehow the words aren’t enough anymore and I have an urge to mark the proof of my ownership that’s slightly shocking in its intensity. Shifting my hips to give myself more room I lean down and then, with no warning at all, sink my teeth into the side of your shoulder until I taste a coppery bloom of blood. It’s urgent and adoring and, oh God, is making my cock even harder than before, but while you give a faint gasp of surprise you don’t pull away. Instead you’re tugging my hand towards your face, kissing every part of it you can while murmuring snatches of something rapturous in a foreign language. In response I drag my tongue across the wound then grab your waist to hold you still, my other hand beginning to pump at your cock in a rhythm that’s hard and fast to match each thrust of my hips. Normally I’d make you wait a bit, but the way I’m going I won’t last long and I want us to come as close together as possible. Besides, you’re being so pliant now and it’s rather addictive; not least because I don’t know how long it’ll be before you’re like this again. But right now your head is resting softly against my shoulder in a way that’s unusually passive and I can tell without asking how happy you are. I think it’s my intense devotion that’s responsible: the adoration is so fierce and obvious, it’s as if you’re basking in it like a cat in a patch of sunlight. I’ll <em>never</em> get tired of this – how you can always make me feel like an object of desire rather than an article of damage or a problem to be solved.  </p><p>“You feel incredible,” I say, almost desperately. “Oh fuck, Hannibal…I’m getting so close.”</p><p>I gasp again then buck my hips brutally hard; raw and primal – animalistic, almost – and shot through with a heady urge to claim, consume and own. It’s like being on fire…like falling off a cliff. I swipe your jaw with my tongue, tasting salt and sweat, then seize a handful of hair and roughly tug until your throat is exposed. Desire has taken over now and there’s no sense of restraint at all, just warmth and responsiveness as your body slides so smoothly against mine. I’m kissing every bit of you I can reach, gasping your name then nuzzling your neck with my lips and teeth until the pressure finally gets too much and I’m spilling inside you in a series of thick wet pulses. Moments like this are so intense it’s genuinely hard to process; not just the physical feeling, but the incredible emotion of it. <em>You’re my entire life</em>, I think fervently, even though it seems too much to say it out loud. <em>My heart and soul</em>, <em>my reason and purpose. My one and only thought</em>.</p><p>“Now you,” I manage to gasp out. “Oh God. <em>Do it</em>. Let me see you. I want you to come for me.”</p><p>You give another deep groan and I can immediately tell when it happens because it’s so hot and gushing across my hand and seems to last an incredibly long time. I devotedly hold you through it, pressing passionate kisses on your back and shoulders then stroking your face as I ramble rather senselessly about how perfect you are. In fact, I ramble for so long and so intensely that I manage to send myself to sleep with it, waking up with a jolt sometime later to find one of your hands cradling my face as your other strokes across the scars on my abdomen.</p><p>You smile when you see me looking at you then lean down to kiss my forehead. “Welcome back,” you say.</p><p>“How long was I asleep?”</p><p>“Not long. Less than half an hour.”</p><p>I make a soft, contented sound then settle back down against you. I’m contemplating falling asleep again, but you clearly have other ideas from the way you’ve begun to rub my lower lip with your thumb as your hand rests beneath my chin. “Spit,” you say. “Make it as wet as you can.”</p><p>“Oh Jesus, really?” I open my eyes just so I can roll them at you. “You’re insatiable. Shouldn’t you be past this at your age?” Your only response is the most godawful smirk and of course I end up obeying anyway; spreading my legs without even meaning to, then letting out another moan as I feel your finger sliding inside me. “Uhh, no way,” I gasp out. “Hannibal…I can’t.”</p><p>“Yes you can.”</p><p>“Don’t,” I say, rather half-heartedly. “Stop it. Oh God. That’s…<em>ah</em>. No, use your thumb. Just there. Fuck. Yeah, like that.”</p><p>“Like…that?” You kiss my forehead again, slowly stroking my cock back to hardness as your other hand continues the rhythmic back-and-forth against my ass. “You’re getting so tight. <em>Mylimasis</em>. You’re close already, aren’t you? I can feel it.”</p><p>I groan then catch my lip between my teeth, spine arched and head flung back as I work myself against the long slide of your fingers. I can hear a rustling sound as you lean down to run your tongue along my throat. “Did you mean what you said before?” you ask. “About letting me film you.”</p><p>I’m already past the point of speech so just nod rather helplessly. You give a low satisfied sigh, although I suspect it’s not the act itself that’s making you so happy; instead, it’s the level of trust in you that my permission implies. Then I just screw my eyes shut and forget about everything except how good it feels: your hands expertly sliding and stroking, playing me like an instrument, until I finally make a small mewling noise and come all over myself for a second time.</p><p>“Perfect,” you say with obvious delight. “My beautiful boy. I knew you could do it for me if you tried.”</p><p>“Oh shut up,” I say. “Put your god complex away.” Then I just collapse rather inelegantly against your chest and bury my face in your shoulder. I’m clinging onto you by now, all four limbs wrapped around your body like a limpet. The closeness is blissful while it’s happening, but as the seconds turn into minutes I grow predictably self-conscious and decide to pull away. My main thought is how much I need a shower (because, not to put too fine a point on it, I’m sweaty and smelly and covered in come) but when you see I’m about to move you dart out to take hold of my hand.</p><p>“No, don’t run off,” you say. “I want to talk to you.”</p><p>Your voice is still slightly hoarse from all the panting; it’s actually quite endearing. I smile a bit then settle down next to you on the bed. “Okay. What about?”</p><p>For a few moments you just stare at me, slow-blinking like a cat. “Guess,” you finally reply.</p><p>As soon as you say this I feel my good mood start to evaporate, because your invitations to ‘guess’ are never sincere. What you’ll often do instead is use the question as a kind of Rorschach test in the hope my answer tricks me into giving away what’s on my mind, regardless of whether it matches what’s on your own. Sometimes you’ll even ask when you don’t have a specific topic to discuss simply to see what I’ll say. Even in good circumstances these covert interrogations can be irritating, but today I’m <em>really</em> not in the mood for it. I make an impatient gesture with my hand before deciding to respond with something totally random just to call your bluff.</p><p>“You want to talk about a vacation,” I say blithely. “A chance to get out the city – and avoid Jack.”</p><p>“I do not wish to do either of those things.” You must know I’m deliberately dodging the question but you still sound extremely calm: clearly you’re not going to take the bait. “Although I wouldn’t be averse to a daytrip if you wanted. Even a weekend away. Did you have anywhere particular in mind?”</p><p>This, of course, is just using my own strategy right back at me because you’ll already know that I haven’t. “Not really,” I reply, purposefully casual. “I guess a daytrip would be good. Maybe we could hire a car; I quite miss driving.”</p><p>“Do you? I wouldn’t have expected that.” I immediately frown at you: <em>why the hell not?</em> “As I recall you never drove that much before,” you add in the same calm way. “My prevailing memory of you is falling asleep in other people’s cars. But regardless, it still won’t be possible because you’d require an international driving permit – which I don’t believe you have.”</p><p>“And you do, I suppose?” You immediately look smug and I reach out to prod you on your arm. “Yes, of course you do. Seeing how you’re always having to flee the country at short notice.”</p><p>“What a rude little monster you are,” you say affectionately.</p><p>“What a liar <em>you</em> are. Or do you seriously expect me to believe that you’re scandalised at the idea of driving illegally?”</p><p>“You may believe whatever you like. In view of the circumstances I would have thought it wise to avoid unnecessary trouble.”</p><p>“Yeah right: you love trouble.”</p><p>“I suppose I do,” you say. “It must explain my enduring fondness for you.”</p><p>This makes me smile and you smile back then lean over to brush a strand of hair out my eyes. “I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t contradict me before,” you add. Now you sound thoughtful again; it’s so typical that even a blatantly bullshit answer still manages to rouse your curiosity. “What I said about sleeping in other people’s cars. It was true, wasn’t it?”</p><p>“I guess so. What does it matter?”</p><p>“It scarcely matters at all. It’s just one small fragment of a larger mosaic – namely how vulnerable you were back then. <em>So</em> vulnerable, Will. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, but I was extremely surprised the first time I saw you.”</p><p>“Were you?” I say with interest. “How so?”</p><p>“Because I was expecting someone so much older. In my mind’s eye I saw you as greying and battle-weary and instead you turned out to be a beautiful young man, barely older than some of the trainees. That was when I knew how fascinating you were going to be.” You catch my eye and give me a rather eerie little smile. “You had the vitality of youth yet the graceful methods of maturity; ferocious and audacious, with an exquisitely obscure mind and a dark slender soul.”</p><p>“Allow me to translate that,” I say wryly. “What you <em>really</em> mean is you liked the idea that being younger would make me easier to manipulate.”</p><p>“Naturally,” you reply, which immediately makes me laugh. It’s so typical of you not to deny it, despite the way the admission makes you look like a massive asshole. “It also increased my determination to prise you away from your Uncle Jack as soon as possible – and transfer that rather luscious dependency to myself instead.”</p><p>I reach out and give you a second, harder prod. “I was never ‘dependent’ on Jack. Stop projecting. And for God’s sake don’t start with that whole father figure thing again.”</p><p>“But why not?” you say innocently. “Why not when it’s true? Not that I am a conventional father figure, I’ll certainly grant you that. Jack’s paternal feelings were akin to one of your own dogs. Very clumsy and ineffectual. I, on the other hand, am a father in the same way a lion is.”</p><p>I raise a sceptical eyebrow. “How do you mean?”</p><p>“Because when a lion conquers a pride he destroys the existing cubs and establishes his own.”</p><p>“Delightful,” I say drily. “Thanks for that. You’re really not selling this analogy – just so you know.”</p><p>As usual you completely ignore this and just continue staring at me with the same cryptic smile on your face. “Most likely he’ll slay several of his own offspring too,” you add. “But there is usually one who survives. The favourite. The one who he teaches how to hunt and thrive.” You smile a bit more then trail your finger across the scar on my cheekbone. “And then, one day, this younger lion finally moves on himself: roaming around to spread beautiful chaos. Naturally his neighbours fear him, but his presence among them helps to establish stability. Without him the Savannah would be destroyed through over-grazing, so each time he kills he promotes a natural harmony. His society ultimately prospers from his villainy.”</p><p>You conclude this speech then lean back a little and run your eyes across my face, completely oblivious to the awkward silence that’s begun to hover over us like fog. My own response, on the other hand, is far less poised and mainly consists of opening my mouth then shutting it again while trying not to catch your eye. A part of me is tempted to make a dumb joke about <em>The Lion King’s</em> circle of life and laugh the whole thing off, but I know it would just be another childish attempt at avoidance so naturally I don’t. After all, you’re hardly being subtle about it; your analogy is a pointed reminder of how you still think there’s a chance I might leave you to go back to Jack – this time as a predator with a ‘good’ purpose. I give a restless shuffle and you stare a bit more before adding, seemingly from out of nowhere: “Do you know what makes me such a successful therapist, Will?”</p><p>I flinch without meaning to, surprised by the abrupt change in tone, and as you watch me your faint smile begins to flicker around the edges. “It’s because I know how to recognise a person’s desire,” you say, drawing out each word with slow precision. “And then, after that, how to help them act upon it. A person can only be fulfilled when they obey their natural instincts.”</p><p>“I know,” I say irritably. “You’ve told me that before, remember? You’ve told me a hundred times: ‘<em>Because to deny and repress one’s true nature is the greatest act of self-violence it is possible to commit</em>.’”</p><p>“Indeed,” you reply, provokingly calm as ever. “And I am entirely correct. We owe ourselves nothing less than actualisation: to embrace our purest natures and reject the deluded version which society clamours for.” Briefly you fall silent again as you stroke your eyes over my face, loving and languorous like you’re committing each feature to memory. “To do so is <em>therapeutic, </em>Will: even if the process is painful and frightening at first. Even if it torments you. Even if it feels like it’s going to push you past your breaking point. Not that I blame you for resisting it, of course. Why wouldn’t you prefer to turn all your stunning perception on something other than yourself?” I don’t reply and you add after a few seconds silence: “You’re still so conflicted aren’t you? You’re <em>consumed</em> by it.”</p><p>This time I’m better prepared for you so manage not to visibly react. “And you’re consumed by a need to ask pointless questions,” I say. Then I just lie there in a cool unflinching way that gives no hint to what I’m thinking while you gaze back with equal intensity and the same inscrutable stare.</p><p>“Would you like to know why?” you finally add. “Why the therapeutic value is so high?”</p><p>“Would it shock you to know that I wouldn’t? Or that I know you’re going to tell me anyway?”</p><p>“It’s because <em>that’s</em> when you will no longer be haunted,” you reply without missing a beat. “And it’s the point that you’ll finally force yourself beyond what you think is possible to endure and emerge at the other side, completely and fully alive.” As you’re speaking you raise your hand again: this time to run a finger across my forehead, very slow and deliberate like a surgeon tracking out where their scalpel would go. “The real spectres are the living Will, not the dead. We haunt ourselves – never forget that. Drifting through the remains of our lives consumed with all the burdens and regret we never found the strength to dispose of.”</p><p>You give a final eerie smile then coil your head to one side in a curiously serpentine gesture before going completely silent and still. In fact you’re so motionless it strikes me as unsettling: like living taxidermy, or some kind of sinister museum specimen that could come to life without warning. I hate it when you do this. It’s a reliable sign you’re preparing a full-on verbal assault, and while it’s been a long time since I’ve been afraid of physical harm your capacity for psychological wounding still genuinely bothers me. You’ve always had an unnerving ability to get inside someone’s head, and while I know it’s been done to me numerous times already the idea of it happening again unsettles me more than I like to admit.</p><p>“Okay,” I say sharply. “You’ve made your point. I get it.”</p><p>“What do you get?”</p><p>“All <em>this</em>: what you’re really trying to say. And I don’t know what more you need to convince you. I mean look at everything I’ve given up to be here. Do you really think I’d walk out on you now?”</p><p>“What I <em>think</em>,” you say, “is that there was a point in your life – not all that long ago – where you would rather have killed us both than submit yourself to my version of you.” I wince slightly and you wait a few seconds, rather like you’re studying my reaction, before finally choosing to continue. “Another thing I <em>think</em> is that I recently asked you to consider formalising our relationship with marriage and you never gave me an answer. Then ever since you’ve avoided the issue – because you <em>are</em> avoiding it Will. You must think I’m either blind or stupid not to have noticed?”</p><p>“Of course not,” I say wearily. “You know I don’t think that.”</p><p>“Then it’s reluctance on your part? That’s rather unusual. You’re not a coward, yet when it comes to this issue you’re radiating fear.”</p><p>“No,” I say. “It’s not fear. Not exactly.” For a few moments I fall silent, trying and failing to summarise the extent of my inner contradictions: at some point I must have started to gnaw my lower lip, although I only notice when you reach out your hand to stop me. “Do you remember what I said to you just before we left America?” I finally add. “I said that I didn’t know exactly what was going to happen and that we’d have to figure it out as we went along.”</p><p>“Yes, I remember.”</p><p>“Well…this is me figuring it out.”</p><p>You start to frown at me but this time I just absorb it, staring back and refusing to drop my eyes until you give a small shrug as a sign you’re prepared to back down. “A beautiful lack of concern there my love,” you say; and while it’s obvious you’re displeased with my answer the hint of approval in your voice is still unmistakable. “I congratulate you on your resolve. Most people in your position would be discomfited beyond belief but you just cast it to one side and move on. That’s good Will: never be governed by your emotions. Relish them, exploit them, or recruit them, but don’t allow them to control you.”</p><p>“You mean like you?” I say wryly.</p><p>“Exactly like me.” Very briefly the eerie smile returns to your face, flickering round your mouth like flame on paper. “We’re quite a singular combination aren’t we Will? Me the doctor with death as a vocation…you the investigator with a secret flair for murder.”</p><p>“Okay, that’s enough,” I snap. “Just don’t. Not now.”</p><p>“But if not now, then when?” you reply with awful calmness. “What’s the alternative? That violent part of you is always going to be there, yet even after all this time you can’t fully allow him to breathe. One day you’re going to have to find a way to take solace in him, and to do so you need to learn to look him in the eye. It’s a feature of all the best narratives after all – a true Hero’s Journey. A plunge into the Underworld to face your darkest, greatest challenge…then arise afterwards, blood-smeared and triumphant.” There’s another long pause before you finally speak again, this time quoting in a tone that’s vaguely hypnotic: “‘<em>Wind them up and watch them go. You wanted to see what somebody like me would do.’ </em>That was your moment of self-acceptance, wasn’t it Will? It was your realisation of exactly who you are and what you’re capable of. And now you’re so close to getting across the line but still there’s something which holds you back. And as long as that remains the case then you’ll always be vulnerable to the overtures of Jack Crawford.”</p><p>“As opposed to what exactly?” I’m trying to stay calm, but by this point my simmering sense of resentment is almost impossible to hide. “The overtures of <em>you</em>? I told you this Hannibal; I told you right from the start. You don’t get to try and mould me into another version of yourself.”</p><p>Your face visibly flinches when I say this and it occurs to me that the harshness of the reply has hurt you. I can’t help it though; it’s true. Besides, it not like causing pain has ever stopped <em>you</em> from doing anything. “Do you want to know something?” I add. My voice has completely dropped in volume now: one extreme to the other. It’s almost like I’m thinking out loud. “There was a time when I <em>really</em> wanted to hate you. I spent years wishing I could.”</p><p>This time you’re more in control of your reaction and your expression remains smooth and impassive, refusing to give anything away. “Yes, I can imagine you did,” is all you reply. “And after that I suppose you began to hate yourself instead – frustrated by your own lack of ability. Yet you always deserved the kind of transformation I could offer you. You deserved your freedom. I warned you that it would be painful the more you resisted it, but I was always prepared to wait for you. I told you so didn’t I? To wait for you as long as it took; how I knew you were worth waiting for.”</p><p>“Then you have to let me be free,” I say, equally quietly. “And you have to let me do it in my own time. Which means I get to live how I want to, not like someone who’s been made in your image. I’ll never leave you Hannibal. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t – I think I’ve shown that by now. But I can’t <em>be</em> you either. And I won’t. I can only be myself.”</p><p>Your only response is to stare at me, eyes bearing into mine with an expression as blank and tranquil as a slab of marble. God knows what you’re really thinking. It’s true you’re not trying to argue, but even the most optimistic part of me can’t believe you’re happy with what I’ve just said – much less that you agree with it. But none of that matters so much as what you’re planning to <em>do</em> about it; and even after all this time together, it troubles me that I’m still not fully able to tell.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Comments are always loved and appreciated! I’d also be very grateful if people can please keep any criticism constructive. Thank you xox</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter 18</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Lol, sorry in advance guys, but this chapter is basically just filler (stuffed with nothing but fluff). This is because (a) all the drama and major plot beats are due to kick off soon, (b) for which I’ll need peak performance Writing Mojo, and (c) I don’t have enough coffee in my house that’s needed to write the intense Hannibal dialogue, so (d) I finally wussed out and decided to write something easy instead XD</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s not like this is the worst disagreement we’ve ever had. It’s not even in the top 50. But once it’s over an epic sense of awkwardness still sets in which succeeds in lingering across the house for the rest of the morning like a covering of fog. In fact it persists past lunch time, then extends towards dinner, and only looks like it’ll finally disperse when I realise I can’t stand it anymore and ambush you in the kitchen with an impromptu hug as an emergency peacekeeping gesture. At least it’s <em>meant</em> to be a peace-keeping gesture, except I fuck it up halfway through and it ends up being more like a football tackle (or possibly a wrestling move). This is awkward, yet also typical, because my attempts at affection are nearly always incredibly half-assed. I like to think I’ve improved a bit since we started living together, but moments like this make me realise how far off I still am from being genuinely good at intimacy. Although admittedly, as transitions go, this doesn’t seem particularly promising…it's like I’m a caterpillar that went into a cocoon then came out again as an even shittier caterpillar.</p><p>Predictably, you take the tackle like a total champ. Then you catch hold of me with both arms and wrap me against your chest (partly as a sign of affection but also, if you’ve got any sense, to prevent further ‘hugs’) before stroking my shoulders in a soothing kind of way that someone might try to calm a frightened animal. This is very deliberate on your part: you know it’s still a novelty for me to be touched in a way that feels safe or pleasurable, and the way I’ve grown yearning and dependent on it if it comes from you is something you’ll exploit every chance you can get.</p><p>“<em>Il mio amore</em>,” you say fondly. “<em>Va tutto bene</em>.”</p><p>I immediately start to smile at the sound of the Italian, because I know this is another thing that’s deliberate. You can tell how overwrought I feel, so are using a foreign language to offer reassurance while also giving me the option to avoid a conversation if I don’t want to talk. Despite your capacity for epic ass-holery you can be surprisingly considerate with things like this and I’m always grateful when it happens. Even so, I ignore the offered Get Out Of Jail Card and decide to just acknowledge things directly instead.</p><p>“I’m sorry I spoke to you like that,” I mutter into your shirt. “I meant what I said, but I shouldn’t have been so…hostile.”</p><p>It’s rare for me to apologise this bluntly, and I can tell you’re pleased with it from the way you shift your hand upwards to cradle the back of my head. “Thank you,” you say. “The remorse is appreciated, but unnecessary.”</p><p>“We need each other,” I add. “We shouldn’t fight.” In place of the wrestling I’ve begun to hang off you instead, which involves hooking both arms around your neck then clinging on aggressively. You always say it makes me look like a monkey, which I think is supposed to be a deterrent but just makes me want to do it even more.</p><p>You now adjust your posture a bit to counterbalance the clinging then use your other hand to resume stroking my back. “I wasn’t aware we were doing that,” you say. “Perhaps my threshold for disagreement is higher than yours.”</p><p>“Maybe,” I say doubtfully. “I still agree we should talk about it properly…” Then I remember what this would involve and trail off for a few seconds before awkwardly clearing my throat. “At some point.”</p><p>“By which I suppose you mean that point is not now?”</p><p>My only response is to clear my throat again. God, I’m so shit at this. “Look, you were right what you said,” I finally add. “I <em>have</em> been avoiding it, and I want to have a proper discussion with you. But Jack being here changes everything. I can’t deal with both at the same time.”</p><p>“I’m afraid that statement isn’t quite the solution you think it is,” you say crisply. “You were avoiding the subject long before Jack arrived. Nor is it very flattering to your state of mind to suggest the appearance of Jack, and me suggesting marriage, are an equivalent scale of problem.”</p><p>“Yeah, okay – sorry. That sounded really bad.” For a few seconds the image of the shitty caterpillar flashes into my mind; it’s wearing an expression of mournful confusion that’s only marginally less pathetic than the one I’m almost certainly modelling myself. “I didn’t mean it like that.”</p><p>“Very well,” you say. The fond tone has returned to your voice now; I think you find my emotional constipation endearing, despite the way you’re always its main target. “I accept your apology.”</p><p>“Thanks. And no, it’s definitely not the same.” I reach round and give you a playful dig on the side of your ribs. “I like you a lot better than I like Jack.”</p><p>“What an astounding compliment. I am too emotional to speak.”</p><p>“I suppose it could be worse,” I add sardonically. “I could be about to marry Jack and <em>you</em> were the one who turned up unexpectedly.”</p><p>Despite this clearly being a joke (I mean…Christ) it’s still enough to make your face completely shut down before springing back to life again a few seconds later wearing an expression of truly magnificent outrage. In fact your reaction is so ridiculous I can’t even be bothered to call you out on it, so in the end just let go of you and walk away before you can start obsessing about a parallel universe where Jack and I are Husband and Husband. I’m hoping you might take the hint, but of course you don’t and instead just follow straight after me and proceed to loom around while I’m making coffee like the official team mascot of creepy stalkers (in other words: situation normal).</p><p>“Where did all these come from?” I say eventually. ‘These’ happen to be a small mountain of paper towels I’ve discovered in the cupboard, and while the query was initially meant to change the subject I’ve realised I genuinely want to know. “There’s an absolute <em>ton</em> of them.”</p><p>“You have a stunning gift for exaggeration: there are around 20 packets. And in answer to your question, they came from <em>Rinascente</em>.”</p><p>“Seriously?”</p><p>“I am entirely serious.”</p><p>“Yeah, but I go in there all the time,” I say gloomily. “They <em>know</em> me.” Your eyebrows elevate so far up your forehead they look like they might become airborne; I frown back at you in response then pick up the nearest packet and brandish it accusingly in your direction. “Now thanks to you they’re going to think we spend all day jerking off. I mean, what else would two men be doing with this many paper towels?”</p><p>“That is so preposterous I’m not sure it deserves dignifying with a reply. But since you asked, they are going to think they will be used during food preparation – which is precisely why I bought them.”</p><p>“But <em>why</em>…”</p><p>“<em>Because</em>,” you say briskly, “they have the absorbency and texture of linen yet are also disposable.”</p><p>I blink a few times then glance from you to the towels and then back again. “Are you kidding me?”</p><p>“On the contrary.” Your tone is so incredibly solemn that anyone listening would think you were discussing world peace, or irrigating the desert, or raising the dead, or pretty much anything except the absorbency of paper-towels-which-are-not-linen (and also disposable). “It’s a quality which renders them both practical and convenient,” you add; you actually manage to sound smug about this, as if you’ve scored some kind of epic point and I should just give up now and apologise to you and the towels together. “And because I don’t wish to be constantly re-stocking, it made sense to acquire them in bulk.”</p><p>“You’re ridiculous,” I say witheringly. “I hope you know that. At the very least I hope they were cheaper to buy in bulk?”</p><p>“Is that so? Then I’m afraid you are destined to be disappointed.”</p><p>“So how much were they?”</p><p>“I don’t quite recall. Probably around 40 Euros.” I must look aghast because you immediately start to smile. “As you can see I favour plain to patterned, so compared to the alternatives they were rather competitively priced.”</p><p>“I don’t care if they were signed by all four <em>Beatles</em>,” I say. “That is a complete waste of money.”</p><p>“It is, indeed, a terrible scandal. I hope in time you will learn to come to terms with it.”</p><p>I glare at the towels for a few seconds like they’ve personally offended me before realising how stupid the whole thing is and starting to laugh. “So is this what being married would be like?” I say. “Deranged disagreements over paper towels?”</p><p>“I would certainly hope so,” you reply airily. “I enjoy these trivial domestic disputes with you very much. Our more serious conversations are equally satisfying of course, yet one still needs to leaven the severity with something lighter. It is like balancing the flavours of a meal. I consider all this agonising over paper towels to be a kind of sorbet.”  </p><p>I pick up one of the packets again and examine it incredulously before waving it at you like a fencing sword. “So they’re a palette cleanser, then?” I say. “A pretentious, over-priced companion to the main dish?”</p><p>“Exactly so.”</p><p>“Okay, great,” I say. “That’s…great.”</p><p>On an impulse I pitch the packet towards you, which you neatly dart out and catch one-handed. “Yes, isn’t it?” you reply happily. “I think I shall have to find some new ways to outrage you, simply for the pleasure of being lectured by you afterwards for how irresponsible I am.”</p><p>“It seems like you’d be getting a bit more out of that arrangement that I would.”</p><p>“Not at all. Only think how cross you’re going to be while you’re doing it. You love being cross – I think you will enjoy yourself enormously.”</p><p>This makes me laugh again and you smile back before sauntering over to prop yourself next to me against the counter. You look very elegant as you do it, and I can’t help thinking how anyone else would look as slovenly as hell in the same position whereas you manage to drape yourself about like an artist’s model. It always makes me wonder how consciously done it is; whether you purposely arrange yourself to look as striking as possible or if it’s just natural poise? Everything you do has such deliberation that it’s hard to imagine even something so simple as your posture to be entirely accidental. But then again, you’re so aloof that it’s equally hard to imagine you getting hung up over whether other people find you attractive or not. I smile to myself at the sight of it then finally reach out to run my finger along one perfectly positioned forearm.</p><p>“Look at you,” I say fondly. “You’re such a poser.”</p><p>Your only response is to smirk very faintly without even attempting to deny it. “Let’s go out tonight,” you say instead. “I’d like to buy you dinner.”</p><p>“No way,” I say quickly. “Absolutely not. Not while Jack’s here. You need to be careful Hannibal; I’ve told you that. I’m worried he might want to come after you.”</p><p>“I’m always careful,” you reply, in the sort of dismissive tone that’s easy to translate as <em>I’d like to see him try</em>.</p><p>“I’m serious. If you’d heard him you’d understand what I mean. It’s like he’s obsessed with having a chance to confront you.”</p><p>“That’s extremely ambitious of him.”</p><p>“Cut that out,” I say sharply. “Don’t be so arrogant – I know you think you’re invincible but you’re not.”</p><p>“Well, Jack is going to be here for some time. And seeing how we agreed that I am not going to submit myself to house arrest...”</p><p>“Actually, we never agreed…”</p><p>“…then it makes sense to make our life as comfortable as possible in the meanwhile. Besides, we are currently occupying what is known as ‘the calm before the storm’ so why not take advantage of it? You said yourself how tired Jack was: the only place he is likely to be for the next 12 hours is fast asleep in his hotel.” My face must show a slight sign of weakness because you promptly lean in to press the advantage. “But that won’t be the case forever. Soon he is going to grow active again, at which point a little more caution would be advisable. It therefore makes sense to seize the moment while we can.” You run your eyes across my face then smirk a bit more. “There is also the fact that you’re looking particularly bad-tempered and beautiful, and I want to take you somewhere I can show you off.”</p><p>“Don’t say ‘show me off’,” I reply irritably. “It makes me sound like I’m your car or something.”</p><p>Your only response is another smirk and despite myself I can feel my resolve starting to waver. After all, the next day or so probably <em>is </em>the last chance for a bit of freedom before Jack’s presence grows genuinely oppressive. You obviously feel the same, because your features promptly arrange themselves into one of your favourite yearning expressions (which you always whip out to get me to do what you want, and which somehow manage to make you look deeply devoted yet incredibly mournful all at the same time). It’s complete bullshit of course: I know you do it on purpose. In fact, you’ve been pulling the same face at me for so long that I can’t help feeling you must have been honing it over the years for maximum effect, probably combined with regular practice in the mirror. The main problem, unfortunately for me, is that the only thing more predictable than your Sad Bullshit Face is my own expression in response (and how it always tends to run along the lines of ‘<em>No</em> <em>I can’t…I really shouldn’t…Oh fuck it, why not, I might as well</em>’).</p><p>I now stand there for a few seconds, struggling with an increasingly faint conviction to Do The Right Thing until I’ve finally reached the inevitable ‘<em>oh fuck it, why not</em>’ phase – at which point you can tell you’ve won and your own expression changes back from Tragic to Smug with the speed of someone flicking a switch. However this still leaves the problem of where we can actually go, because I’m still not at a sufficient stage of ‘fuck everything’ to agree to somewhere as crowded as a restaurant or bar, whereas you refuse to go somewhere secluded like a cinema on the grounds that the only films you’ll deign to watch are lengthy arthouse nightmares; and even if I was willing to subject myself to one (which I’m not) there isn’t anywhere nearby that shows them.</p><p>A prolonged stretch of bickering now ensues in which you reject my suggestion of going for a walk (<em>because we are not a pair of pensioners, Will</em>) and I refuse a fundraising gala at the Bargello (<em>because it’ll be heaving with people. No, definitely not – and stop making that goddamn face</em>) until a compromise is finally reached with the Opera di Firenze, which satisfies your need for something cultured while reassuring my own concerns that Jack would surely prefer to gnaw off his own feet than sit through <em>Don Giovanni</em>. Although if I’m honest I’m not that far behind him, because I’ve already seen it twice – both times with you – and while the first was mildly enjoyable, the second was borderline dismal, and the third is pretty much guaranteed to reach levels of tedium that are feet-gnawing in severity. Only I don’t have the stamina to withstand another round of your Sad Bullshit face, so dutifully haul myself upstairs to fling on the same black suit I always use for formal occasions, and which has now sat through so many graduations, presentations and assorted ceremonies that given a pair of glasses and a briefcase it could probably turn up on its own and do the job without me. You keep pestering me to let you buy me a new one and I keep refusing you permission, although you admittedly scored a small success last month by wearing me down enough to accept two new bottles of aftershave. They were so exclusive I didn’t even recognise the brand names, but while it technically crossed my ground rule for not letting you control my appearance it’s still been worth it just to spare myself the agonised sighs and nostril flares whenever I was around you in my usual cheap stuff.</p><p>Once I’m done I stare rather critically into the mirror, craning my neck in several directions before twitching my tie into a crisper angle and smoothing down my lapels.  I guess I look passable enough, but there’s no doubt these situations always highlight the social contrast between us: mainly because you possess the type of patrician good looks that go extremely well with evening dress, whereas I’ve never managed to shake the suspicion that I look like an advanced form of primate in comparison who’s been coaxed into a formal jacket before being systematically and selectively shaved. Then I start smiling to myself, because it’s always a relief to realise that we’ve been together so long I’ve got past the point of seriously caring about it. There’s no doubt the flickers of self-conscious still exist, but by now they’re more based on what other people might think about seeing us together rather than any judgement from you.</p><p>I now go downstairs to the living room, where this theory is promptly confirmed when you throw me a look of such obvious admiration it makes me think I could be wearing a trash bag and you’d still think I looked like The Shit. Then I pour myself a glass of wine and brace myself for a second round of bickering, because while you’re raring to leave I’m equally determined we arrive late enough to limit the number of people in the foyer. To me this seems like an obvious precaution, but I can already tell you’re not happy about it. Not that I expected you to be. Being the centre of an admiring crowd has always been a source of enormous satisfaction to you and the social aspect of attending the opera has almost as much appeal as the music does. It always makes me wonder how the hell you get away without being spotted, although admittedly it never seems to be a problem. I remember once asking you how you managed it the first time round when you made yourself even more visible than you do now, but you didn’t seem to have a straightforward answer. ‘<em>Hiding in plain sight,</em>’ was all you said. ‘<em>As a strategy it’s remarkably effective. People only ever see what they wish to.</em>’ Of course it’s also a strategy that ultimately failed, although needless to say you never acknowledge this. At least now you’ve got me in tow you’ve become a bit less reckless and your public appearances are fairly few and far between. This is something I’m much happier with; not only for safety reasons, but because I’m far more introverted than you and a subdued social life suits me. Privately I’m sure you must miss it – all those soirees and dinner parties – although you always deny this when I ask you. <em>Why would I?</em> you’ll say. <em>Your company is more than enough</em>.</p><p>As predicted you start to brandish the Sad Bullshit face at mega intensity to get me to change my mind, but this time I manage to man up enough to ignore you (and it) and finally succeed in getting it (and you) to the theatre a mere 15 minutes before the performance starts. Even so, the plan is still less successful than hoped for because the foyer, while sparse, is nowhere near as quiet as I’d like it to be. Seriously, why are all these fuckers stood around out here? I find myself staring round at them in annoyance, wondering who the hell they are. Have <em>they</em> all been battling Sad Bullshit faces too? But there’s only a matter of minutes left before we go inside, and in the end I decide to park you behind one of the pillars (a bit like tying a dog to a lamp post) then make you promise not to move before heading over to the bar for a tray of drinks. I have a vague plan of using alcohol to take the edge of my uneasiness – while also doubling as a helpful sedative for the tedium of <em>Don Giovanni</em> x 3 – but when I turn round again my unease promptly gets replaced by irritation when I see you’ve been joined behind your pillar by a man with a lot of very white teeth, an extremely deep suntan, and waves of jet black hair (all of which look equally artificial in their separate ways). He’s standing <em>much</em> closer to you than I’m happy with, brandishing his glass around with the same enthusiasm as someone waving a stick for a dog, and my eyes instinctively narrow at the sight of it as the irritation shifts again and turns into resentment instead. There’s no doubt I’ll have to get rid of him: not even the risk of causing a scene and all the resulting awkwardness is enough to stop me. Anyway, it’s not like you can complain because you’re just as bad as I am around rivals. In fact, if anything, you’re much, <em>much</em> worse – the key difference being that you tend to be more subtle and lethal about it, whereas I just go full Neanderthal and act like I’m about to hit the other person on the head with a rock before dragging you back to my cave.</p><p>I now launch across the foyer at full maniac speed and rudely insert myself between you and the stranger, who immediately turns round to flash his teeth in my direction. Up close he looks older than I first thought, although it’s difficult to pin him down to an exact age: the most precise I can manage is that he’s older than me but younger than you. Or possibly he’s not – it might just be all the fake tan and hair dye helping him out. He greets me loudly in Italian and in return I give him a rather severe look, which essentially translates as <em>Don’t make me get my rock.</em></p><p>“<em>Chi è questo</em>?” he adds, turning back to you again. He’s smiling as he says it and my frown deepens even further (<em>Find your own high cheek-boned sociopath, you lecherous toothy shit</em>). “<em>Chi è lui?</em> He is a friend of yours?”</p><p>He follows this up with a deliberate pat on your arm; I make a subdued snorting sound then practically shoulder-barge him out the way so I can hand you your glass of wine then plant myself in front of you and swing my metaphorical caveman club. Then I realise I’m possibly being a bit <em>too</em> obvious about it so thrust my hands into my pockets instead in an attempt to look casual (I can see you wincing at the way it’s ruining the lines of the suit and determinedly ignore you). In fact by now my irritation is shifting slightly towards you as well as him, because your willingness to accept rude behaviour from anyone except me is always guaranteed to drive me insanely jealous.</p><p>“He is very…ah, <em>aiutami per favore</em>,” adds the man. He smiles a bit more then snaps his fingers before turning back to you again. “I forget. <em>Un uomo attraente</em>. What is the word in English?”</p><p>Even my shitty Italian can interpret this as ‘good-looking’; at which point I adjust the frown and swivel it in your direction instead, because from the look on your face I just <em>know</em> you’re going to tell him something stupid on purpose to annoy me. Sure enough you give me a triumphant smirk and then reply, in a voice of excessive innocence: “Pretty.”</p><p>For a few seconds I indulge a highly enjoyable fantasy of taking the wine back again just so I can throw it at your immaculately groomed head. “Pretty?” I say to you in an undertone. “Are you <em>shitting</em> me?”</p><p>Unfortunately this last part comes out a bit louder than intended and manages to coincide with the other man leaning forward towards you, right on time to hear it. “<em>Scusi?</em>” he says merrily. “<em>Non capisco</em>. What is that? ‘Shitting’? I am not familiar.” He turns from one of us to other, obviously waiting for someone to help him out. “That is English slang, no?”</p><p>My sole contribution to this interesting social dilema is to open my mouth to reply before realising halfway through that I can’t be bothered and closing it again. You, on the other, are completely unfazed. “Indeed it is,” you reply calmly. “Very avant-garde in certain circles. <em>Avanguardia – capisci cosa intendo?</em> You ought to try it.”</p><p>You catch my eye as you’re speaking and I have a sudden urge to laugh; partly because your smug malevolence is always amusing, but also at the idea of various well-bred Italian socialites innocently competing over who can devise the most avant-garde conjugations of the verb ‘to shit’  (including, but not limited to, ‘to shit oneself,’ ‘to shit them all’  and ‘I shitted him most efficaciously’).</p><p>“<em>S</em><em>ì</em>, <em>s</em><em>ì,”</em> says the man. “Perhaps I will.”</p><p>With a colossal effort I sober up sufficiently to arrange my expression into something vaguely resembling neutral. “Yeah,” I tell him. “You really should.”</p><p>“Ah, <em>bellissimo</em>, that accent,” coos the man “<em>Così Americano</em>. It is adorable.” I catch your eye again, then am just about to contemplate saying something about shit in an adorable way when rescue obligingly presents itself in the form of the bar bell telling everyone to take their seats.</p><p>“Bye then,” I say loudly. The man promptly shakes your hand and you <em>ciao</em> at each other a few times before he finally manages to fuck off down the stairway in the direction of the stalls and I give in to the urge to laugh.</p><p>“Who the hell,” I say, “was <em>that</em>?”</p><p>“I have spoken to him a few times in the past,” you reply. “He owns a local art gallery. He is also, as you see, a horrendous bore.” You smile sardonically but don’t add anything else, and I manage to stop sniggering long enough to ask if you’ve been shocked into silence by excessive bullshit exposure when you reply in a thoughtful voice: “No, I appear to be sulking because I am not as adorably voiced as you are,” which promptly sets me off again.</p><p>You’re smiling yourself now, which is always nice to see. Both of us are generally rather stony-faced around other people but we can make each other laugh all the time when we’re alone. “I knew you were going to do that,” you add. “I had already set a countdown in my head until the cavalry arrived.”</p><p>As soon as you say that it strikes me that you might have been letting him slobber over you on purpose (or, more likely, actively encouraging it) just to provoke a reaction. In fact, you almost certainly did: you’ve always enjoyed seeing me get aggressive on your behalf. As if to confirm this you give an eerie little smile then place your hand on the small of my back to guide me towards the staircase.</p><p>“I confess, I was expecting him to show a <em>little</em> more decorum,” you say. “I was not particularly pleased with the way he spoke to you.” You pause suggestively then press against my back a little harder. “Perhaps we should pay him a visit?”</p><p>Internally I feel myself sigh. It’s so painfully easy to recognise this for what it is; namely one of your many (<em>many</em>) overtures to calibrate my standards of worthiness a little closer to your own, in which who gets to live and who deserves to die stops being rational and shifts onto some abstract plane of morality instead. Considering our setting it’s also strangely fitting: part of your endless quest to transform carnage into performance, where killing is borderline operatic and death is brash, beautiful, over-the-top extravagant. A gothic <em>Grand Guignol</em>, which takes the macabre then transforms it into a vista of viciously infernal artistry. You’ll suspend these suggestions over me like dainty little morsels just there for the taking, and while I refuse them each time you do it it’s never enough to stop you trying.</p><p>“No,” I now reply, just like I always do. “Not unless you can prove he’s done something worse than just being drunk and sleazy.”</p><p>This makes you sigh yourself. Unlike mine it’s positively <em>lavish</em> in how expressive it is: as far as you’re concerned, it’s clear that either of these crimes are more than sufficient justification. “Well, perhaps you may be right,” is all you say. “A metamorphosis to a new, superior form is a gift which he may not be fully deserving of.”</p><p>Even now – even after everything – there’s something about the calm way you describe killing someone as a ‘gift’ that’s still jarring enough to make me wince. Although surely that’s a good thing? At least it shows I’m not completely numb to it, despite the way I sometimes wish I could be. Instead of replying I just cast a quick, covert glance in your direction, staring at you almost guiltily from beneath my eyelashes before you have a chance to see me doing it. You look so striking this evening. Mesmerizing, almost. You’ve got your hair slicked back off your face, which is something you hardly ever bother with anymore yet always makes you look incredibly sleek and glamourous whenever you do it. It highlights your cheekbones and the angular slants of your face, making you look more aloof and, in some indefinable way, more dangerous and predatory. Even so, your general person suit is on impeccable display and no one watching would ever guess you were anything beyond the suavely charismatic centrepiece of High Society that you appear to be. They’d never imagine the extent of that terrifying core simmering beneath the surface, the same way I sometimes couldn’t tell anymore whether you really were a person or just playing the part of one. Although I suppose that’s always been the secret of your success hasn’t it? People find it so hard to truly <em>see</em> you.</p><p>Of course the irony of this isn’t lost on me, because I had the exact same problem for most of my life and never really found a solution for it until the day I found you. I now cast another glance in your direction, this time a bit more softly than before. Admittedly it didn’t feel like a solution to begin with, and I used to really resent it – <em>hated</em> it, in fact – because of how deftly you were able to rifle through my emotions without permission before holding out whatever you’d found to inspect it. It used to drive me wild with irritation…until suddenly it didn’t. I can even remember the moment the shift first really occurred. I was in your office one day, snappish and skittish while staring out the window, when you suddenly asked, apropos of nothing, what was wrong.</p><p><em>Why are you asking</em>? I’d said. I was angry with you and I can still hear the tone of my voice; how annoyed and indignant I’d sounded. <em>How do you know anything’s the matter?</em></p><p><em>How do I know? Because you’ve told me of course</em>.</p><p>
  <em>No I haven’t. I haven’t told you anything.</em>
</p><p>Your mouth had flickered then: that eternal ability you’ve always had to indicate amusement without taking the trouble to smile.<em> No, and you never tell me if you’ve cut your hair, or acquired a new shirt, </em>you’d said.<em> But I observe it nonetheless. </em>And in the end I’d just smiled for the both of us, because I instinctively knew it was true. You could just see it, couldn’t you? You could see <em>me</em>. And in turn I don’t think I’d ever really understood how badly I needed that until it was on offer. To be really seen, despite there being so much at that point I felt I could never possibly show. In some of my bleakest, loneliest moments I think I could have even believed that there was no greater way to demonstrate regard than those three small words, surpassing even love itself. <em>I see you</em>. As if love was just a pale and unconvincing counterfeit of perception; of the acceptance and awareness that comes from being <em>seen</em>. It was true back then and it’s true now, and it’s enough to dissolve the previous flash of discomfort and make me pull a bit closer to you before taking hold of your hand.  </p><p>The touch makes you glance down immediately. Possibly you’re surprised: it’s rare for me to be affectionate with you in public. I also suspect you’re fully aware of the mental wrangling I’ve just undergone, but it’s clear you don’t intend to pester me about it and instead just guide me towards the top floor where you’ve reserved a private box for us. This is something you’ll often do, and despite finding it needlessly extravagant it’s something I’ll never complain about because I know how unbearable it is for you to be surrounded by other people coughing and shuffling. It also means I’m sensitive to not becoming a similar distraction myself, and I now make a concentrated effort to conceal how bored I am by sitting very quietly to avoid disturbing you. Not that this is a very promising plan; the options for entertainment in a pitch-black auditorium are, after all, somewhat limited. I start off with translating the libretto to practice my Italian and then, once I get sick of that, lean over the balcony instead and count the orchestra to see if all the sections are complete (they are). Oh God, I’m so bored…I can’t help it. No doubt I’m just a massive cultural peasant, but opera never manages to transport me the way it does you. Authentic emotion seizes my attention so fiercely that I don’t seem to have any left over for artificial versions, regardless of how skillfully they’re performed. It’s one the reasons movies and plays so often leave me indifferent.</p><p>Having said that, even you aren’t looking quite as rapt this evening as you generally are. It’s not like you’ve been reduced to counting the musicians, but you <em>do</em> keep shifting in your seat at intervals then restlessly drumming your fingers on the armrest in a way that’s out of character. It occurs to me that the music isn’t up to your typical standards, although to be honest it’s hard to tell. It certainly sounds good enough to me (but then I’m a massive peasant so what would I know?) To test this theory I lean over until my head is resting against yours and then wait to see your reaction. If you’re engaged you’ll barely notice me beyond a token gesture – a touch to the hand perhaps, or a brief return of pressure on my face – but this time you respond immediately by pressing a kiss to my forehead then draping your arm across my shoulders. Now I feel smug, because this not only confirms you’re not concentrating on the music but suggests it might be a good idea to do something about it. Should I? Yeah…yeah, I think I should. It’ll probably cheer you up a bit and will undoubtedly make me much happier. Two birds with one stone, as it were.</p><p>On stage Leporello is now busy reciting a list of conquests to an anguished Donna Elvira, which I suppose is as suitable a soundtrack as any to act like a massive Man Slut. Besides, at least it means everyone around us will be focussed on the performance. I decide to go in for the kill and begin to lavish your throat with feathery kisses, slowly progressing upwards until I can tug at your earlobe with my teeth. As much as you love attention you’re more than capable of telling me to metaphorically piss off when you want to, so your silence makes it safe to assume you don’t want me to stop. Even so, I still slide my hand along your thigh to check for sure, promising myself that if you’re not enjoying it I’ll move back to my own seat and leave you alone. Hmm, no…no you’re <em>definitely</em> into it. In fact you’ve got so hard so quickly you must have been even less invested in the music than I’d realised. It’s also more than enough to help make up my mind as I silently slide off my chair to kneel in front of you, reaching out to unfasten your belt one-handed as I go. The fact there’s no one nearby makes the risk of getting caught exceptionally low, yet the mere possibility of it still adds a perverse thrill of danger to what I’m about to do.</p><p>The same thought must have occurred to you too, but it seems you’re equally cavalier about it because you make no attempt to stop me. I mean of course you don’t – why would you? The more debauched and inappropriate something is the better you like it. Instead you offer silent encouragement by tangling your fingers into my hair, gently stoking and tugging before possessively gripping the back of my neck at the exact same moment I slide your cock into my mouth. Fuck, I can actually <em>feel</em> you hardening on my tongue; I give a small moan then get to work in earnest, using as much saliva as possible to keep things wet and soft while cupping you with my hand to get some extra depth. Above me you make a sound that’s close to a hiss then dig your nails into my skin as your hand trails across my shoulder. Your desperation is so obvious that it spurs me on to double my effort, sucking hard enough for my cheeks hollow out then screwing my eyes tightly closed with the intensity of how good it feels. I absolutely <em>love</em> doing this for you; it’s one of those things where giving is almost as good as receiving. Partly it’s from how much I like to watch you unravel, but also because you’re so exposed and defenseless this way and the fact you’ll allow it always seems like a powerful sign of how much you trust me.</p><p>Your now hips give a violent twitch and as a spurt of pre-come leaks into my mouth I lick it up greedily, swirling my tongue around the head of your cock then digging into the slit until I’m rewarded with another flood of it. The whole thing is gloriously fast and messy and the forbidden element makes me clumsily over-excited; at one point almost choking with a series of gags that are so intense they make my eyes water. There’s also no denying that the position is terrible. I’m rammed against the wall with your legs pressed tightly round me, and while I know you prefer to have me gazing up at your face while I’m doing this the cramped space makes it impossible to move. I can’t even jerk myself off because my elbow would thud too noisily against the balcony. But I don’t care about any of it and the discomfort is nowhere near enough to make me want to stop. Instead I reach out into the darkness to grab your hand in mine, widening my mouth to take as much of your cock as I can then speeding up the pace until your breath is hitching into a gasp. In a way I almost feel bad for you because it must be agony not to make any noise; I can tell from how you’re squirming against the seat and the tense drag of muscle as you grip me tighter between your thighs. I’m probably making it worse by clenching your hand so hard I feel the bones grind together, although the urgency isn’t for myself – the only thing I care about anymore is to make you feel as good as possible. By the time you’re giving my hair a warning tug the intensity and intimacy have grown close to overwhelming and when you start to come straight down my throat it’s almost enough to make me come myself. I’m so turned I even forget how over-sensitive you must be, so continue sucking and lapping long after it’s over until you have to catch hold of my chin to make me stop.</p><p>I finally pull off you with a wet, slippery noise (which somehow sounds far louder than it should) then tenderly lick you clean while you stroke my hair and rub my lower lip with your thumb. If I’m honest I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself: that whole experiment worked out even better than hoped for. I have a private smirk against your leg, then am just about to haul myself back to my seat when you catch hold of my waist to pull me onto your lap instead. It feels pretty ridiculous to be honest (an image of a ventriloquist’s dummy unhelpfully comes to mind) but I stay there anyway without attempting to move. Behind me I can hear the rough heave of your breath as you reach round to take hold of my tie, jerking my head back with it like I’m on a leash until I’m close enough for you to savage my throat with your lips and teeth. It’s almost aggressive in how passionate it is, but before things can get painful your mood switches again as the kisses stop just as abruptly as they started and grow soft and affectionate instead. It’s extremely rare to ever get a sense of you feeling vulnerable, but I really have it now from the tender way you murmur my name before both your arms wrap around me and hold on so fiercely it’s like your life depends on it. Times like this have been increasingly rare in the past few weeks, but they always feel profound whenever they happen. They’re the times when you speak to me without saying a word; when your touch and gestures alone are enough to communicate what you want to. <em>I love you</em>, you’re saying. <em>I need you. Beloved. Don’t ever leave me</em>. <em>Don’t betray me a second time</em>.</p><p>In that moment it seems as if the specter of Jack is hanging right over us and I can tell you’re thinking about our conversation from this morning. But just like before I don’t know the right words to convince you, so in the end I just speak silently too: tipping my head back against your shoulder until my face is tucked beneath your chin and you can rest your cheek contentedly against my hair. The music is still soaring and plunging in the background and as we settle down to watch the rest I make a final effort to banish the image of Jack and focus on this feeling of togetherness instead. I might as well because God knows how long it’ll last: realistically it’s only a matter of time before another drama come crashing in to spin things even further out of control. But it hasn’t happened right now, and in these few fleeting moments there’s no madness, misery or bullshit to distract me; nothing at all except that overwhelming sense of love and connection. Just me, just you. Just us.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So sorry lovelies, but just to let you know that there won’t be an update next week. The balance of positive to negative feedback shows I’m really starting to miss the mark with this fic and it’s got to the point I feel I need to take a bit of time out to think about fixing some of the issues. I’m genuinely sorry I couldn’t do a better job for you all - in hindsight it was kind of a stupid idea to try a sequel soooo long after the original as it was inevitable some of the momentum would get lost :-(</p><p>To the people who are still enjoying it, thank you so much for your invaluable support and encouragement and I’m *really* sorry to keep you waiting. I’d love to get back to weekly updates ASAP, and am hoping a break should help me to feel more creative/confident enough to start writing again at my usual speed. That way when the cliff-hangers start you definitely won’t be left with big gaps between the chapters. </p><p>Lots of love in the meantime and hope to see you very soon (and please don’t forget to eat The Rudes) xoxox</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
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